


Storybooks and Siren Suits

by Evenatango



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Childhood Friends, Evacuation, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kid Fic, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 109,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24960409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenatango/pseuds/Evenatango
Summary: WWII Kidfic AU - As the threat of war grows the Mounts decided to return to England instead of staying in Singapore, and a young Patsy gets evacuated with her sister to Pembrokeshire.Meanwhile Delia goes to live with her grandmother for the duration, allowing her mam to sign up for war work. Childhood friendship and fluff ensue, though some hurdles may need to be overcome to get there...
Relationships: Delia Busby & Patsy Mount
Comments: 160
Kudos: 101





	1. Patsy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure why I decided this needed to be written, but it's interesting to write something a bit different and have a chance explore the experiences that lead up to the characters becoming the people we know and love. In spite of the different timeline, I have tried to write their experiences in a way that makes sense of the characters they become when we meet them in canon.
> 
> Also, brief note on accuracy: I have altered Patsy and Delia's ages to suit my purposes in this story, as otherwise Patsy would be 6 and Delia would be a toddler, if that, which would make striking up a friendship difficult!

‘Forty eight, forty nine, _FIFTY_! Ready or not, here I come!’  
  
  
As she spoke the words, Patsy turned another page in her book and read on, making no move to get up and search the room. 

  
The story was at a particularly interesting part, with a giant Alice stuck inside the White Rabbit’s house, too big to get out the door but unable to make the enraged Rabbit outside understand. _More_ animals joined the siege then, attempting to climb through the window or down the chimney to get at her, but being knocked back each time by one of Alice’s giant hands or feet. It was funny to read about her batting them away and launching Bill the lizard right into the air with her foot, but it was frustrating too, because if only they’d listen they’d realise that she wasn’t being deliberately naughty, she _couldn’t_ come out.

  
The crowd outside were calling for the house to be burned down with poor Alice still stuck inside it, when finally Patsy managed to drag her attention back to the real world for long enough to call out:

  
‘Where _could_ Grace be? Is she under the bed? Ah _hah_ … no that’s just her shoe. Bother, I was sure I had her that time!’

  
There was a suppressed giggle from the next room, where Patsy knew perfectly well that her little sister was crouching behind their big doll’s house ( _Patsy’s_ dolls’ house), her fingers pressed tight over her mouth in an effort to keep quiet.

  
She hadn’t actually _seen_ her there, but it was the same place Grace had hidden every single time they played hide and seek for the last month, so it wasn’t hard to guess. She probably looked quite a lot like the giant Alice actually, with the top of her head on full display above the red painted roof and a foot or bit of elbow poking out around the edges of the walls; as if she too had grown too big for her house and was beginning to burst right out of it.

  
Grace still seemed to be blissfully unaware that hiding so she couldn’t see Patsy didn’t mean that she couldn’t be seen herself, or indeed that her sister might not be trying very hard to find her.

  
Not trying at all, really.

  
As long as Patsy called out every few minutes to make it sound as though she was looking, her sister wouldn’t notice that the game never seemed to end with actually being found. It couldn’t last forever of course, but for now, games of hide and seek offered a rare opportunity. Grace would be happy playing what she thought was a secret game with her sister’s prized possession, and Patsy would be free to do whatever she felt like, unencumbered by her demanding little sister. 

  
She could draw a picture without having to risk the points of her colouring pencils by letting Grace scribble with them; or read an entire chapter of her book without having to fend off repeated requests to read ‘Orlando The Marmalade Cat’ aloud instead (‘because you’re my Marmalade sister Patsy!’); or even (best of all), have a chance to play her own small, secret game with Matilda, the tiny teddy that usually had to stay hidden in her pocket for her own safety. 

  
Matilda was very definitely _Patsy’s_ bear, but, like all Patsy’s favourite toys, Grace coveted her, and tried to take possession of her whenever she could. In most things Patsy tended to let her sister have her way simply to keep her quiet (and so avoid the wrath of grown ups for not ‘playing nicely’), but Matilda was different. She _couldn’t_ hand her over. It would be like cutting off her own hand.

  
Grace would end up screaming and drumming her heels against the floor, while Patsy held Matilda safely out of reach above her head and waited for the storm to pass. But of course the noise would almost always bring a grown up running to investigate, and they would inevitably take Grace’s side, telling Patsy to let her sister have the teddy because she was younger, and wasn’t Patsy too old for silly teddies anyway? (no, she wasn’t. Not if it was Matilda).

  
Then she would have to look on in silent agony while Grace played triumphantly with her prize; afraid every minute that Matilda might be dropped down a drain, or that her sister would tear her little pinafore or unravel the stitches in her smile. None of these things had actually happened (yet), but it was safer to just keep Matilda out of sight unless she was alone.

  
It wasn’t that Patsy disliked playing with Grace, not _really._ She could be funny sometimes, and quite good fun for such a little girl - certainly more fun than being all on your own all the time. But the last few months had changed things.

  
When they lived in Singapore they’d had their nanny to help jolly Grace out of her tantrums, and Patsy had had lessons most of the time anyway. But Maud hadn’t come with them when they’d come to England, and ever since then Patsy had been expected to keep her sister entertained all day long, every day, without the respite of school or visits to friends houses or anything at all. 

  
Of course Mama made sure they got up in the mornings, that they were dressed and fed, that they bathed and brushed their hair and teeth regularly; but the endless hours in between breakfast and lunch, and then lunch and supper, supper and bed, those were Patsy’s responsibility. She was expected to keep Grace happy and busy, but also quiet, tidy and well away from anywhere she might disturb the grownups of the house, and it was exhausting.

  
At eight, she felt both much too old and much too young for the task. Too old, because the kinds of little girl games that Grace wanted to play felt twee and silly to her now (let's be cats! You have to be Orlando because you have orange hair, and I’ll be Grace because that’s my name too!’). Too young because it was hard work, taking care of Grace all the time, and her sister didn’t always listen when she told her to do something, not even if she put her hands on her hips and went all cold and stern like Mama, or shouted like Daddy.

  
The only time she really got to herself, other than if Grace fell asleep first, was during the games of hide and seek.

  
‘Ah hah, she must be on top of the wardrobe! I see you up there you little monkey!’

  
‘Patience? What _are_ you shouting about?’

  
Patsy jumped, instinctively dropping her book and leaping to her feet as if she had been caught stealing from the biscuit tin rather than reading quietly to herself in her bedroom. 

  
‘I’m just playing hide and seek with Grace, Mama’.

  
Her mother’s gaze settled for a moment on the dropped book, but she seemed distracted, and she didn’t bother to point out that the chances of finding her sister in the pages of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ were slimmer even than the chances of such a small girl managing to climb to the top of their imposing victorian wardrobe.

  
‘Very good dear. Well, leave that now. I need to talk to you’.

  
Patsy’s heart gave a little stutter of foreboding. The only times Mama ever came to talk to her unexpectedly were to tell her off, or to deliver bad news.

  
In fact, the last time she had said ‘I need to talk to you’ in that same way, it had been to announce that they were moving back to England. She had said it as though it was a good thing - ‘we’ll be nearer to the family, and able to offer support to our homeland in her hour of need’, but it didn’t _feel_ good.

  
Until Patsy was six they had moved around a lot, never staying in one place long enough for her to make proper friends. Sometimes it had felt like it wasn’t even long enough for her to unpack all her toys from their shipping crates before she had to pack them all away again and go to yet another new house. 

_  
Then_ they’d gone to Singapore. 

  
There had been no more moves for nearly two years, and she had finally dared to believe they would be staying forever this time. She had had a best friend, and gone to school with other girls like her, and she had been happy.

  
But four months ago her mother had said ‘I need to talk to you’, and all of a sudden she had to leave everything behind - her friends, her pretty bedroom with the window seat and real four poster bed, her school where the teachers liked her and she had been about to be given a prize for her English composition, all gone in the time it took to say those six little words.

  
Worst of all, she had had to say goodbye to Maud. Her nanny had been the only grown up in the world who didn’t tell her she was too old for childish games or teddies, the one who had instead given her cuddles and told her stories and sometimes even taken her side over Grace’s when they argued. 

  
And then she wasn’t anymore, just like that. 

  
Maud was _from_ England - she had come with them long ago when Patsy was small, and travelled around with their family ever since. But this time she hadn’t wanted to come. She had explained that there was no one left for her in England, and with the current troubles she’d feel safer where she was, though she hadn’t explained what she meant. She had just hugged Patsy and Grace very tight and said she’d miss them; only she couldn’t really have meant it - not as much as they’d miss _her_ . If she had then she’d have come with them so they could all stay together and it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t have anyone else in England - they’d have had each other. She would _never_ have gone off to be a nanny for their neighbours horrid little boy, as if she could replace them just like that.

  
Patsy dug her nails into her palms and focused on her mother, trying hard to ignore the way her heart was still thumping under her smocking as she thought back over everything she might have done to warrant a telling off.

  
‘It’s about your little… holiday’.

  
‘With aunt Florence and cousin Eleanor and uncle Peter?’

  
‘Yes yes, there’s no need to recite the whole list dear. Well, I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan. We’ve had word that poor Eleanor is very unwell. The doctor is hopeful that she will recover in time, but she’s going to be poorly for a while, and even when she’s better it’ll need to be quiet so that she can convalesce - do you know what that means?’

  
Patsy opened her mouth to say yes (although actually, she wasn’t absolutely certain), but Mama continued without waiting for an answer; though she had told Patsy often enough how rude it was not to let other people finish.

  
‘Well, it means you won’t be able to go and stay there anymore’.

  
‘But… but we have to go. What about school?’

  
She and Grace had been going to enroll in a smart girl’s school in the Cotswolds, near where their aunt lived. They already had the uniforms, pressed and carefully folded in their trunk, ready to be transported. Her mother might _call_ it a holiday, but they were supposed to be staying with their aunt at least two terms, maybe for the whole school year; with Mama visiting as often as she could. 

  
It was going to be Grace’s first time going to school, so the two of them had spent hours looking at the prospectus that aunt Florence had sent - Grace pouring over pictures of smiling girls in smart uniforms, large playing fields and airy classrooms; while Patsy read out the words (only stumbling a little at the longest ones) and tried to describe what school was like. She wanted Grace to be excited about going rather than scared, so she’d focused mostly on friends and playtime and learning how to read story books to yourself, rather than mentioning strict teachers and French verbs and sitting still or else.

  
‘You’ll go to a different school of course’.

  
Patsy bit her lip. She didn't _want_ to go to a different school, and Grace definitely wouldn’t want to either. The Cotswolds school looked quite nice, but not all schools were. There was a convent school that they had to walk past on the way to the park, and it was the scariest place ever. Probably scarier than a prison. It was a big ugly building with small windows and no playing field at all. It had high railings around it with nasty looking spikes at the top, and the nuns she occasionally glimpsed striding across the playground always seemed to be frowning, as if they were looking for someone to shout at or rap with a cane. _And_ they had the uniform for the other school now, so they’d get in trouble right on the first day for wearing the wrong clothes, and all the other girls would know that they didn’t fit in just by looking at them.

  
‘Can’t we just stay at home? I… I’m sure _I_ could teach Grace, and do my own lessons out of books as well, I know I could’.

  
‘Of course you can’t stay here Patience, don’t be absurd’. 

  
‘But if we can’t go to aunt Florence then we’d be here after school anyway. I could look after us during the day too, easily. We’d be very quiet and not get in the way, truly’.

  
The words were accompanied by a sinking feeling as Patsy imagined how hard it would be, not only to have to look after Grace all day long, but to actually teach her lessons as well. She already often felt cross with her sister, and that was when they were just playing; it would be much worse trying to teach her to add and spell and recite. At least at school someone else would have done that part while she focused on her own classes, and they both could have made friends their own age instead of being stuck together all the time. 

  
But they couldn’t go to the convent school, they just _couldn’t_. So she would manage somehow. 

  
‘You _won’t_ be here after school. I do wish you’d listen! You need to leave London. It will be too dangerous for children to stay here now War’s coming, you know that’.

  
Except Patsy _didn’t_ know. Not really.

  
She had been listening as hard as she could ever since Mama had first told her they were leaving Singapore, but no one ever actually seemed to say what they _meant_. They hinted at things she didn’t understand, or started sentences without finishing them, or simply told her that it wasn’t a nice thing for little girls to ask about and sent her out of the room.

  
She _did_ know that the grown ups acted very busy and very serious all the time now - that Daddy had signed up to be an officer in the army, and Mama was going to ‘do her part’ in London while Patsy and Grace went away to school (although even Mama didn’t seem to know what her part actually _was_ ).

  
Patsy knew these things, but they didn’t feel _real_. It was like it was just a big game they were all playing for now, but would get bored of soon and go back to normal. They _had_ to, because the idea of whole countries fighting each other didn’t seem like something that could ever _really_ come true. The Wars had all happened years and years ago when Mama and Daddy had been children, or even _longer_ ago in the proper olden days, when things had been different to how they were now. Wars belonged in history lessons and text books, not in real life.

  
But if, somehow, it really _was_ going to happen, if there would be bombs and fighting right here in London - then why would it be dangerous for her and Grace, but safe for Mama? It didn’t make any sense, and Patsy longed to say so - to argue, maybe even shout that it wasn’t _fair..._ Except you never argued with Mama (and never _ever_ shouted at her), and she couldn’t think of any way to put all her worries into words that wouldn’t make Mama say she was being disrespectful.

  
‘What you’re going to do is exactly the same as all the other children in London. You’re being evacuated to the country, and a family there will look after you until it’s safe to come home’.

  
‘But we don’t _have_ any other aunts, do we?’

  
‘It won’t be an aunt, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’ll be… well, the government is finding good homes for all the children who have to leave London’.

  
The _government_ ? How could they possibly do that? The government didn’t know Patsy and Grace, and _they_ didn’t know anyone else in the whole country - only Aunt Florence, and even that was only a tiny bit, from letters and a few hazy memories of long ago visits. 

  
If they weren’t staying with an aunt and they weren’t staying here with Mama, then...

  
‘We have to go and live with a _stranger_?’

  
The words wobbled as they came out no matter how hard Patsy tried to keep them straight, and her eyes felt a bit stingy, like she’d rubbed at them with salt on her hands. She could feel a shout building in her chest but she couldn't let it out, so it just kept building and building until there was no room left to breathe properly. 

  
‘Don’t be such a baby Patience! I’d expect this from Grace, but not from you, you’re a big girl now. You’re what, nine years old? Ten?’

  
‘Eight’.

  
‘Well, quite old enough to go on a little train ride, there’s no need to make a fuss. I’ve spoken to Sister Bernard at the convent school and explained your situation. She’s agreed to take you in hand on the journey, so you can travel with their pupils, and she’ll make sure you’re placed with a suitable family. I don’t quite know how it works, but I expect she has something arranged already. They’ll meet you at the station and take you somewhere lovely I’m sure. Perhaps with a big garden, maybe even horses or a boating lake, you’ll like that won’t you?’

  
Patsy nodded uncertainly. She liked horses, and big gardens (the London house was big inside but hardly had any garden at all). She liked lakes and boats too, but she couldn’t quite believe that all these things would really come true. Even if they did, it would be in a strange place with a strange school and people they didn’t know even a little…

  
Her mother must have noticed her wavering because she sighed and gave her a little pat on the shoulder.

  
‘Come on now, straighten that spine and put on a smile to show me how brave you are. You’ll have to be a good grown up girl and take care of your sister while you’re gone you know. She’s still a baby really-

 _  
Grace was_ four _, very nearly five. Why did she get to be a baby when Patsy had to be a good grown up girl?_

  
‘-so you shall have to be like a little Mama to her. I know you won’t let me down, will you dear?’ 

  
She didn’t feel at all sure, but Patsy did as she was told, standing up straight and plastering a too-big smile across her face as she answered ‘no Mama’, even as her heart pounded away and her palms grew sticky with sweat.

  
‘Good girl. Now, that’s enough talk, I need you to pack a little case for you and Grace. I’ve left a list of what you’ll need on the hall table so it shouldn’t be too difficult. We’ll be going to the station in the morning, so I want you to finish before bed, alright?’

  
‘We’re leaving _tomorrow_?’

  
‘ _Yes_ dear, I just said that didn’t I? It really is tiresome when you make me say everything twice. We shall go to the station after breakfast tomorrow. So, pack what you need tonight - only what it says on the list though, you’ll need to fit it all in one case as Grace won’t be able to manage her own, so do be sensible. I wish I could stay and help, but I have Mrs Edwards arriving any minute to discuss the WI fundraiser, and I’m afraid they simply can’t get along without me. But you can manage, can’t you Patience?’

  
Patsy nodded, keeping the big, silly grin stretched uncomfortably across her face until her mother had disappeared down the stairs, then she let the smile drop and her shoulders slump. 

  
She reached into her pocket for Matilda, giving her head a gentle stroke with the tip of one finger, reassured by the familiar velvet softness of her. She imagined her bear reaching up to hold her finger with a tiny paw and tell her that she wasn’t going to be on her own at all. If anything the slightest bit scary happened while they were away then she would simply call out to all her big bear friends and they would come to the rescue. 

  
‘I might be just a little bear myself Patsy, but I’m a bear _queen_ and my friends are the biggest, fiercest bears in the world, they won’t let anything bad happen to us’. 

  
She sighed and closed her fingers around the teddy for just a moment, wishing she really _could_ summon some giant bears to come and take care of her. She could live in their cave and eat honey sandwiches every day and sleep between the big paws of the mother bear where not even bad dreams would dare to trouble her... 

  
Patsy let Matilda drop gently back into her pocket and trailed miserably out to the hall to find the list. On her way out the door she glanced back at her book and hesitated for a moment, but then left it where it had fallen, its pages splayed out forlornly on the floor. She didn’t have time for Wonderland anymore.


	2. Delia

If you’d asked Delia a week ago how she’d feel about being given an extra surprise holiday, she'd have said it would be _transcendent_ (her current favourite word that she hardly _ever_ got to use, but was so much more interesting and sophisticated than just saying ‘good’). Somehow though, now it had come true, it wasn’t quite as _transcendent_ as it should have been.  
  


Everything about today seemed to be just a little bit _off_. Not enough to say why exactly, but enough to make Delia’s tummy clench and her thoughts get loud in her head so that she had to do something to drown them out. She tried telling jokes (‘Mam, what do you call an elephant in a phone box? Stuck! What are Caterpillars scared of? Dogerpillars! What do you…’), and when this didn’t get much of a response (even though she was really proud of the dogerpillars one) she switched to singing instead, because you can do songs by yourself but jokes aren’t much fun if the other person doesn’t even _try_ to guess the answer, or laugh when you tell them. 

  
She sang ‘I do like to be beside the seaside’ first, as it was the only holiday-ish song she could think of. It was a cheerful, bouncy sort of song, but it reminded her that they _weren’t_ actually going to the seaside at Tenby like they normally did, and that made her think about all the other things that were different about this holiday. The funny wobbly feeling was back, so half way through the second verse she abandoned the seaside and launched into ‘The Laughing Policeman’ instead; because surely if anything could make you feel happy and normal and properly excited it would be a song where you did a big, big laugh at the end of every verse.

  
Even that didn’t quite work though, because Mam wasn’t telling her off for being so loud like she should have been. Well, she _was_ , but just with a quiet ‘oh Delia, give it a rest will you’ instead of the much sharper rebuke that such behaviour usually warranted. She didn’t even get properly cross at the policeman song, and Mam _hated_ that one - she always said it went ‘right through her head’, whatever that meant. 

  
Except this time she didn’t say it.

  
That was the First Strange Thing. 

  
Mam had been being too nice to her all day, her smile a bit too bright, giving out treats with a generous hand. Delia had been allowed to have TWO big spoons of sugar on her breakfast porridge, when even on her last birthday she’d only got one, _and_ Mam had bought her a bag of jelly babies for the journey, _and_ she’d let her wear her shiny patent ‘absolutely just for very best parties and church’ shoes when she asked, even though they were only going to stay with Nain, who had seen her old scuffed lace ups at least a thousand times.

  
The treats were good, but they scared her a bit too. There was a girl at school whose little brother got very sick, and he got all sorts of special sweets and toys and no one ever shouted at him, not even when he screamed or bit the doctor, or when he smashed a teapot on purpose. 

  
Delia didn’t _think_ she was sick. She didn’t feel at all poorly and although Mam was being extra nice, she would definitely still get really, really cross if she smashed her prized Victorian teapot that had been passed down all the way from Delia’s great great grandmother and would one day come to her for a wedding present ( _if_ she ever learned to be really properly careful with things and swore to use it only for best).

  
But then maybe the boy’s parents just had a less fancy teapot, because he had been sent away to the country too after a bit, and then Sian stopped coming to school and the teacher said the little brother had died and the rest of the family were moving away for a new start. So maybe Delia was dying too and being sent for country air, and Mam didn’t want to tell her.

  
That would also make sense of the Second Strange Thing. 

  
The summer holidays were almost over, so if she _wasn’t_ dying then she’d have to be back home in three days for school, and yet Mam had packed the big leather case instead of Delia’s own little cardboard one. The leather case was too big and heavy for Delia to carry more than a few steps when it was packed, and even Mam was looking a bit hot and flustered after carrying it all the way to the bus stop. 

  
She couldn’t be _sure_ because Mam had shooed her out into the garden to play when she was packing (that was a little Strange Thing too, because normally Mam insisted she Make Herself Useful), but Delia thought it would probably fit enough inside for at least three holidays. Five. TEN. Well, maybe not _ten_ , but definitely more than she could possibly use in three days, even if she wore a fresh dress every single day AND fresh pyjamas every single night.

  
The ‘tragically dying young’ scenario was starting to take root now, the more she thought about it the more it seemed to make sense. She was being sent away for country air just like Sian’s brother, only she would probably still get worse and die, because no one ever _really_ seemed to get better just from breathing country air (not unless they lived in a big smokey town with properly bad air, which she didn’t). 

  
She tried coughing experimentally, but no blood came out like Sian said it did for her brother. She didn’t think it could be ‘liver trouble’ either. That’s what it had been for the only other person she knew who had died - an old man down the road called Mr Grundy, but he had turned a scary yellow colour and been sick all the time, and she didn’t feel the least bit sick. 

  
There was polio too, there had been an assembly about that at school last term. It made your legs go funny and then you stopped breathing and had to have a metal lung put inside you… or something like that - she hadn’t quite been listening because Joyce had kept making faces at her and she had to use most of her concentration on not laughing. There had definitely been a bit about metal lungs though. 

  
She eyed the suitcase warily. Maybe they were in there, wrapped up in her towel to stop them getting bashed about until they were put into her. Did they open you right up to put the metal lung in? She supposed they’d have to, you couldn’t exactly swallow it like a tablet. 

  
The idea was too scary to think about, so she focused on her legs instead, kicking them out one by one, then standing on one foot. They seemed alright. Maybe they were a tiny bit sore? Or a bit wobblier than usual? She switched to the other foot, hopping back and forth to try and gauge the strength in each leg compared to yesterday, but she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t really know exactly _how_ polio made your legs poorly, just that you had to have strange things strapped onto them when they got too bad. 

  
Those would fit in the case too. 

  
She started hopping faster, back and forth until she was practically running on the spot, as if she could out run the scared sick feeling and the pounding in her head that was telling her everything about today was wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

  
‘For heaven’s sake Delia, settle down! You’ll make me giddy with all that jumping about’.

  
Delia paused on one leg, broken from her spiralling thoughts mid hop.

  
‘ _Is_ it polio?’

  
The words burst out before she could stop them, even though Mam obviously didn’t want her to know. 

  
‘Is _what_ polio?’

  
‘What I’ve got. I don’t think it’s liver because I haven’t been sick or gone all yellow but I thought maybe it was polio’.

For a long moment Mam just stared at her, her expression somewhere between frowning and laughing.

  
‘Of course you don’t have polio. You’re in perfect health, why on _Earth_ would you think you have polio you silly girl?’

  
‘Well… the sweets… and the country air, and my knee does feel sore, it really does…’

  
It had all made perfect sense a moment ago in her head, but when she tried to explain it outloud everything jumbled, and now Mam really _was_ laughing, in that exasperated grown up way that meant she’d said something silly.

  
Delia dropped her hovering foot back to the ground with a thump that was very nearly a stomp, and walked away stiffly to wait for the bus at the other end of the shelter, staring hard at the road as if that would block out the laughter.

  
‘Delia?’

  
Mam had followed her.

  
‘I’m sorry for laughing, cariad. Were you really worried?’

  
Before she could work out how to answer, the bus arrived, and Mam had to fumble in her purse for their fares and get the case sorted, and by the time they were sitting down she seemed to have forgotten about the polio. _Delia_ hadn’t forgotten, but she didn’t want Mam to laugh again so she turned to stare out the window instead, trying to distract herself from the hot embarrassed feeling.

  
The bus was an old one. It juddered and groaned its way along its circuitous route through the villages of Southern Pembrokeshire, threatening to break down altogether every time it came to a hill and smelling strongly of petrol and cigarettes. It was too crowded and smelly to be a really pleasant experience, but all the same Delia found herself cheering up a little as she sat with her nose pressed to the grimy, rattly window, staring out at the familiar fields and hedgerows. 

  
She imagined she was on the top deck of a smart red London bus instead of the little local service, a cool breeze blowing in through clean, open windows as they passed Westminster and Buckingham Palace and all the places she had read about in books. 

  
There was the Prime Minister, coming out of Downing Street to see them pass (a cow, staring at them from over a gate), and there was the King of England himself, out for a stroll with the young Princesses and their attendants! (swans - well, _maybe_ just geese, flying in formation overhead). The King was at the front naturally, the princesses on either side but a respectful pace or two behind, their attendants following further behind them in order of courtly importance. Except then the neat V broke up and they all swapped places, and she lost track of who was who. Was that the king, or a lowly footman? The young Princess or just her maid?

  
‘Delia! Sit back properly, the window’s filthy! What can be so fascinating out there?’

  
‘I was just thinking about London. For our next holiday, could we go there instead of Tenby? I’d love to ride a real London bus, and see where the king lives and all the grand buildings’.

  
She neglected to mention that she had just been picturing a goose as the king, nor indeed a cow as Mr Chamberlain. 

  
‘Don’t be stupid. They’re trying to get children _out_ of London, not send them there for their holidays. Anyway, there’s nothing London has that you can’t find better in Pembrokeshire’.

  
That wasn’t true though. London had lots of things they didn’t have here. Like Harrods, and Palaces, and statues and buildings so high you had to crane your neck right back to see the top. They had a zoo with real elephants and lions and tigers, and guards in smart red jackets and strange furry hats. There were theatres and Cinemas and bookshops ten times as big as the library at home. _More_ than ten times _._ Her friend Cathy had been once and she’d told her all about it.

  
‘Why are they trying to get children out of London Mam?’

  
‘Because of the war of course. They need to get children away from the big cities in case there’s bombs, so they’re sending them away to the countryside. You might even see some around the village while you’re with Nain - this is the sort of area they’re being sent to’.

  
‘Oh good! I can ask them all about London!’

  
‘Absolutely not! You’re not to be unkind to anyone of course, but you’re not to go anywhere near them either. They’re slum children Delia, not our sort at all. Goodness knows it’s not their fault, but they’ll be riddled with head lice and scabies and worse, and they’re bound to be filthy and bad mannered as well. You’re to leave them well alone, do you hear? You’re wild enough as it is without being encouraged into immoral ways and bad language by a lot of ruffians. You stick with your own kind and they can stick with theirs, and in a few weeks they’ll all be back where they belong’.

  
‘We’ll be back home by then anyway though. Won’t we Mam?’

  
‘Have a jelly baby’.

  
She took one, but refused to be deflected by it, holding the sweet while she asked the question so she wouldn’t be told off for talking with her mouth full.

  
‘Mam? We _will_ be back home long before then won’t we? How long are we having our holiday for?’

  
Her mother sighed and fidgeted with her handkerchief, taking it out her pocket and shaking it out, then refolding it carefully and putting it away without using it. The sick, squeezing feelings were back even stronger now.

  
‘We _are_ going home, aren’t we?’

  
‘Oh, you and your questions! Alright, alright. Look, I shall be going back home later this afternoon. You’ll be staying on with Nain for a while. You’ll like that won’t you? Goodness knows we’ve always had to drag you back home when you’ve stayed there before’.

  
‘Yes, but… but how _long_ a while? You said I wasn’t sick, you _said..._ So what about school?’

  
‘You’ll go to a new school. Nain’s already sorted everything out so there’s no need to worry about that. You’ll start at the village school on Monday. Now, stop asking questions’.

  
Delia squeezed the jelly baby in her hand, feeling her palm getting sticky as the sugary coating began to melt. All of a sudden she didn’t feel much like eating it. 

  
Sometimes, when she’d been given a hard smack that left the back of her legs stinging for ages, or been told off for something she hadn’t even done, or not allowed out to play when everyone else was, _sometimes_ Delia imagined what it would be like if she could live with Nain instead. Nain never smacked and rarely even shouted, and she gave big cuddles and pieces of homemade toffee and read to her from all the stories she’d loved when _she_ was a little girl. Going to live with Nain was her fantasy... but somehow now it didn’t feel so good. 

  
Had she done something wrong? Had she been so bad that Mam was getting rid of her - sending her away for good? If she was starting a whole new school, this couldn’t just be a week’s holiday.

  
‘Don’t you want me anymore?’

  
It was barely more than a whisper, nearly inaudible over the grumbling engine and chatter of the other passengers, but Mam heard all the same. 

  
For a moment they just looked at each other, not saying anything. Mam’s eyes had gone wide and her mouth very slightly open, as if she couldn’t quite believe that Delia had asked another question after being told so clearly not to. But that couldn’t be why after all, because she didn’t follow up with a light clip round the back of the head, or a stolid refusal to answer the question, as she would have if she was put out by Delia’s disobedience.

  
Instead she reached out and pulled her into a hug so tight and unexpected, that Delia felt the breath whoosh out of her lungs of its own accord.

  
‘You silly, silly girl. You’re my daughter, of _course_ I want you. This has nothing to do with what I want. Haven’t you been listening to me? There’s about to be a war, and that means that all of us have to do our bit. Dad’s gone off to be a soldier, hasn’t he? Well, I need to do what I can too’.

  
‘Are _you_ going to be a soldier?’

  
She tried to picture Mam in an army uniform, her neat skirt and cardigan exchanged for a jacket like Dad’s and big boots. She squinted at her Mam, wondering if she’d cut her hair short like Dad had, and carry a gun for killing Germans and wear _trousers_. It was such a strange image that she almost laughed, but managed to hold it in by clenching her fists tight around the thought and biting her lip hard.

  
‘No of course not, where do you get your notions? I’ll be signing up for _women’s_ war work. It’ll be sewing uniforms for the soldiers, maybe even making their weapons, I’m not sure yet. I do know that once things get started, and that won’t be long now, that I’ll likely be working all the hours god sends. I won’t be home to look after you anymore, and I might have to move to where the work is besides. That’s why you’re going to stay with Nain, for the duration. Since Dad’s already gone to start training I thought it would be best if you went in time to start the term at your new school, especially when the place might be flooded with evacuees soon. I don’t want you coming in late and getting mistaken for one of _them_. It’ll just be for a few weeks, maybe a month or two, nothing to fuss over. Then you’ll come home. Home in time for Christmas at the latest. Alright?’

  
‘Alright’.

  
The idea of not seeing Mam or her own room or her normal school friends, maybe for months and months, felt strange, but now she knew for sure that she wasn’t being sent away for being sick or bad, it started to feel a little bit exciting too. She had played with a few of the children in Nain’s village on visits, so it wouldn’t really be as scary as starting a whole new school on her own, and even if she wouldn’t have all her own toys, she’d have all the nice Nain’s house things to play with and a whole little bookcase of stories to read, and would get to see Nain every single day. Maybe it really would feel like a holiday.   
  


She tried to wrap her arms around her Mam in a relieved hug, but at that moment things returned abruptly to normal as Mam gave a suppressed shriek and slapped Delia’s hands away, pulling back in her seat as if her daughter's fingers had turned into slugs.  
  


‘What’s that horrible sticky mess on your hands? Oh for heaven’s _sake_ you’ve got it all over my neck!’  
  


Ah. She’d forgotten all about the jelly baby, which was now reduced to a gooey lump smeared across her fingers and palm where she’d squeezed it so hard.  
  


‘Sorry Mam, I forgot!’  
  


‘Well, you’ll be lucky to see any more sweets this side of your teens if you’re just going to _forget_ when you’re holding them. Look at the state of you!’  
  


‘I won’t do it again! And look, I can clean it off’.  
  


She tried to pick it off with her fingers, but it was so gloopy by that point that it just stuck to her other hand too. She scraped at it with her teeth instead which worked better, but she couldn’t keep from touching her face with the rest of her hand as she did so, which transferred a light film of stickiness to her nose and cheeks.  
  


‘Lord preserve us. Nearly eight years old and sticky as a toddler after a single sweet! You just keep your fist clenched around it until we can get you properly cleaned up, and don’t you dare get your dress mucky, or you’ll be on the right road for a smacked bottom, much as it would shame me to do that to a great big girl like you on a public bus. As for your face, come here’.  
  


Delia grimaced as her mother spat on her handkerchief and wiped at the sticky patches. She _hated_ being dabbed at with spit. It felt much dirtier and more unpleasant than some good honest jelly baby goo, but she didn’t dare complain, not just then.  
  


They spent the next few miles of the journey sitting in irritable silence, Delia holding her hand awkwardly away from her body so she wouldn’t touch anything. She had never actually got to eat the jelly baby, and wished she could ask for another - the thought of them tucked away in Mam’s handbag was making her mouth water. It was too hot on the crowded bus, and a refreshing lime sweet, or a juicy strawberry one, would be just the thing to make her feel cooler she was sure.   
  


It was no good though.  
  


Mam would probably throw them right out the window if she had the audacity to ask for another one, even though they _had_ been bought for her. She slumped down in her seat and attempted to fan her sweaty forehead with her clean hand, until A Look told her to sit still or else. She tried singing again to distract herself from the heat and the uncomfortable stickiness instead, sitting still as a statue while she did so so she couldn't possibly be told off for fidgeting, but _that_ was no good either. She sang _very_ quietly, but Mam’s hissed ‘ _Delia!_ ’ was sharp enough to silence even the softest whisper of lyrics.  
  


After a long, uncomfortable while, Mam started rummaging in her handbag and Delia sat up straight, eying the bag hopefully. Had she relented on the sweets after all?   
  


Rather than the soft, fruity jelly she was hoping for however, what emerged was a wax paper parcel of sandwiches, and a flask.   
  


Lunch.   
  


The sandwiches were an uninspiring meat paste, and the weak tea in the flask was half cold because Mam had packed it this morning, before Delia had even woken up. It wasn’t a good meal, and she had to eat and drink rather clumsily with her left hand (her right was still balled in a sticky fist); but even though she didn’t complain once, or spill a single drop of tea, Mam _still_ didn’t offer another sweet.  
  


In disgust, Delia gave up on her Mam altogether and went back to staring out the window. She tried to picture London again, but it was harder now. Instead of the King and the Prime Minister she imagined all the little slum children gathering in the streets, preparing to leave for the countryside. Would they take a bus, like her and Mam? Or the train maybe? It was a long, long way from London. Where were they going to _live?_ There weren’t lots of empty houses waiting for them to move in, so what? Would they bring tents and camp out in the fields? That might be fun for a while, but Mam had said maybe until Christmas, it would be much too cold by then.   
  


She still wanted to talk to them about London. Surely not _all_ of them could have fleas. Sara Crewe lived in London, and _she_ wasn’t dirty and bad mannered, even though she did have to be a servant to the other girls at her school.  
  


Thinking of A Little Princess finally distracted her from the discomfort of the journey. She imagined Sara as one of the evacuees, arriving in the village with a big suitcase for herself and a weeny one for Emily, filled with their matching outfits. They would make friends at once of course. Delia would offer her a jelly baby and Sara would let her hold Emily while they talked. They’d sit together at school and walk arm in arm in the playground at lunch time, and Sara would tell the most wonderful stories, not just about London but India and the Bastille too. They’d-   
  


She was yanked sharply from her fantasy as Mam grasped her wrist (careful not to touch the still sticky hand) and gave it a tug.  
  


‘ _Delia_ , would you listen? Hurry up now, we’ll miss our stop!’  
  


She had been so engrossed she hadn’t noticed Mam talking to her, or the familiar streets outside the bus. She stumbled a little as she stood, scrambling to retrieve her abandoned coat from under the seat with her clean hand and following Mam out into the aisle.  
  


They stepped off the bus into bright September sunshine, and there was-  
  


‘ _NAIN!’_


	3. Patsy

The station seemed bigger than she remembered. That was odd, because last time Patsy had been here she herself had been much littler. She had been three years old, or maybe nearer four – young enough anyway that her view of the world was made up mostly of legs and shoes, and sudden looming faces when someone stooped down to pat her head and tell her she was a _little treasure_ (no one thought she was a treasure anymore. Now Grace was the treasure and she was just Patsy).  
  


They’d come to the station on their way to her one and only proper English holiday, and it stood out in Patsy’s memories as a clear, shining day amidst the hazy blur of damp grey (London) and damp green (Cotswolds) that was all she really had left of the brief time they’d lived in England before.  


The holiday had been to the seaside, and Patsy could remember the journey to get there almost as clearly as the beach. The excitement of all the new sights and sounds and smells of the station with its cheerful porters and steam engines and interesting packages piled up on the platform (including a live parrot in a cage that shouted ‘pretty bird!’ and ‘good boy Alfie!’ as they passed), then the tremendous fun of sitting up high on a plush seat in their own private train carriage, eating giant cream buns and drinking lemonade straight from the bottle. Her father had held her up to see out the window and taught her a song about a sixpence and let her hold his heavy silver watch all the way to Bournemouth.  


Back then the station had seemed wonderful, the crowds and bustle existing purely to provide her with things to look at and delight over. It was the same station (she was _almost_ sure), the same platforms and trains and ticket office, but it felt different now, darker and colder and less friendly. The rows of huge roaring steam engines were like monsters waiting to eat her or knock her down, the shouts of grown ups and wails of children all around her echoed and echoed from the high vaulting ceiling far above them until she could hardly hear her own thoughts in her head.~  


Inside her pocket Patsy held on tight to Matilda, but she kept her back as straight as she could and her head held high as she walked towards the row of waiting trains. She tried hard to look braver than she felt, in spite of the shaking in her knees and the feeling that she was all of a sudden too small inside her Sunday best coat and hat. Mama was holding onto Grace’s hand tightly, but there was no hand free for Patsy to hold. Instead she had to walk unanchored on her mother’s other side, the side that was holding the handbag, because she was eight and supposed to hold onto herself now. It made her feel a bit panicky, like she might easily float away – a balloon without a string to be tossed about in the wind and swallowed up by the empty grey sky forever.  


A secret, shameful part of Patsy hoped that she didn’t look brave and grown up at all. She wanted Mama to look at her and realise that she was just a little girl really. She wanted to be as little as Grace – littler even- a tiny baby who would be young enough that she could scream and cry at how scary it all was, who could be picked up and taken care of and never, ever expected to be get on a train by herself or look after anyone or think about bombs. But Mama didn’t look, and Patsy stayed eight, and so she didn’t cry even a little bit.  


If she _had_ cried, she wouldn’t be the only one.  
  


Not far away there was a girl (bigger even than Patsy – she had to be at _least_ 10) sobbing piteously into her mother’s coat, a small boy screaming and drumming his heels in a full blown tantrum at their feet.  


The sight of it gave her a tiny twinge of jealousy (the mother was holding the girl close and stroking her hair in a way that Patsy wasn’t sure Mama _ever_ had, even at home, because tight cuddles would crease her blouse or smudge her powder, or she was too busy, or she had a headache), but it also made her cringe in embarrassment for them both. She had always been taught that tears were a private, slightly shameful thing, and if they must be indulged in it should be behind closed doors, expelled quickly and quietly and not talked about in polite company, like visits to the WC.  


Besides, if she cried then Grace would cry as well, and it would be Patsy that had to manage her on the train journey. Grace might be biddable most of the time, but once she really got going her tantrums could last for hours (well, it _felt_ like hours) - great howling sobs that should have worn her out, but only seemed to spur her on to ever greater depths of misery. It was not worth risking so much as a single tear if it might set one of those off.  


Instead she blinked hard and held on even tighter to Matilda as their mother stooped to bid them a final farewell.  


‘Now then girls, I want you to be good and look after each other. Especially you, Patience. Make sure your sister keeps her fingernails clean and eats up what she’s given. No fussing over vegetables Grace, do you hear?’  


Grace’s mouth puckered into a slight pout at that and she hunched her shoulders, but she didn’t say no. She was still too little to really understand what evacuation meant or how long it might be until they next saw their mother (she had simply been told that she and Patsy were going off on a ‘lovely little holiday’), but all the same, she seemed to have picked up some of the solemnity of the occasion and had been even quieter than usual since breakfast.  
  


‘Sister Bernard assured me that there’s no need to worry about your billet, so I’m sure it will be with a good family and won’t feel too strange. She didn’t give me details, but I expect she will already have arranged for their car to meet you at the station and they’ll have a lovely bedroom all ready for you. It’ll be just as good as staying with Auntie Florence at the manor...’  
  


Whatever she might have said next was interrupted by the announcement that they would be leaving in five minutes, and that it was time for any mothers still on the platform to say goodbye.  


‘Oh dear, already? Well, be brave then darlings, big smiles for Mama now. Make sure you don’t sit next to anyone dirty won’t you, I don’t want you catching anything’.  
  


She bent to let each of them kiss one of her powdery cheeks, straightened Grace’s collar and smoothed an imagined stray lock of hair from Patsy’s face, then turned to walk quickly away. She didn’t look back once, and Patsy felt her face crumple, just for a moment. Grace’s lip was wobbling too, and Patsy realised that she didn’t know where she was supposed to _go_ , but that if they didn’t move soon and distract her then Grace was going to start wailing.  


She dithered, unsure. They had to get on a train, but _which_ train? Why hadn’t Mama _said?_ There were several of them, and there seemed to be children everywhere, not on any one platform in particular. Were the trains all going to the same place? She glanced round once more for her mother, just in case she had realised that she’d forgotten to tell them where to go and was coming back.  


On seeing nothing but milling strangers behind them though, Patsy squared her shoulders and hefted their case in one hand, reaching out to take Grace’s hand with the other. She felt a slight pang at having to let go of Matilda to do so, as if the bear might really have sorted everything out for her if only she’d kept holding her. But Grace was looking up at her trustingly, expecting her to say what to do next and she _had_ to do something, it was up to her now.  
  


‘Well, come on then. We’re going on a big train Grace. It’ll be just like an adventure. We’ll… We’ll get on _that_ one. I’m sure that must be right’.  


She had picked a train almost at random, just to have somewhere to go. There were a few girls her age on that platform, carrying cases and wearing labels fastened to their coats like she and Grace were, so they couldn’t be going  _ too  _ badly wrong if they joined them. At least they wouldn’t stay stuck at the station anyway, becoming more and more desperate.  


She started to march them in that direction, pulling Grace along behind her and keeping up a distracted babble of ‘chuff chuff chuff, see the big choo choo?’ as if Grace was a year old instead of four and a half (although it was really  _ Patsy  _ that was struggling to manage anything more coherent amid her growing panic –  thank goodness Grace didn’t seem to be listening, just staring around her with wide eyes and sucking on her fingers). They had almost reached the train when an oldish lady stepped in front of them so suddenly that Patsy nearly walked right into her.  


‘Woopsie! Careful now dearie. And where are you two supposed to be, hmm? Which is your school?’  


Patsy opened her mouth to explain, but rather than waiting for an answer the lady just stooped down and peered at the labels affixed to their coats. Patsy _hated_ her label. It was tied tightly to a buttonhole with twine, and had her name, age, address and the name of the horrible convent school that she didn’t didn’t DIDN’T go to written on it. It made her feel strange, like they were just parcels of luggage rather than real children. The clipboard lady clearly thought so, or she would have spoken to them properly rather than just comparing what was written on their labels to her list and giving them a dismissive wave.  


‘No no, you’re going in quite the wrong direction. It’s platform six you want, _that_ way. And you’d better hurry, most of the children are already on board, they’ll be wanting to leave soon and you mustn’t keep the train waiting. Off you go now!’  


‘Oh, thank-’  


But she was already turning to catch the arm of a passing boy, who had been rushing up and down the platform pretending to be a train, so Patsy didn’t bother finishing the thank you. They hurried off in the direction she had indicated, Grace trailing half a step behind in spite of the fact that Patsy was the one having to haul the case along, as well as hang onto Grace. The suitcase banged against her legs at every step, and the strap of her gas mask box had twisted so it pulled on her neck, so she was feeling quite hot and flustered by the time they reached the correct platform and met yet another clipboard lady.  


‘Patience and Grace Mount?’  


‘Yes?’  


‘ Yes  _ Sister Bernard _ . You’re late. You were told to be here by twenty to on the dot’.  


Patsy wanted to point out that it wasn’t  _ her  _ fault if they were late, and how was she supposed to know the lady was Sister Bernard? And Sister Bernard was a strange name anyway because Bernard was a boy's name so she wasn’t sure why she was so keen on it… but she didn’t.  


There were lots of things that Patsy thought and didn’t say, especially to grown ups. Having a temper only ever got her in trouble.  


‘Sorry Sister Bernard’.  


‘Well, get on then. You’re the last from St Agnes’ you know’.  


The nun sounded a little smug when she said that, as if showing off how much better organised _her_ pupils were than the two little tag-a-longs she had agreed to take charge of for the journey.  


Patsy hefted the case on first, then stepped gingerly up herself. Last time she had been on a train her father had carried her over the gap, and it seemed very wide now, and a long way down to the tracks below if she stumbled. The gap probably wasn’t THAT big, but she was glad when both feet were safely inside even so.  


Getting Grace on felt even scarier, because her sister was too big for her to actually properly pick up and carry across, but small enough to fall right down through the gap if she misstepped (well, _probably_ small enough). Sister Bernard had already left them, striding away up the platform and slamming the train’s doors shut as she went; so Patsy had to manage on her own, hanging on tight to both of Grace’s hands and pulling while her sister jumped up to meet her. She tried to make it into a game (‘you’re going to be a clever little monkey and we’ll swing you right up into this great big banana tree!), but she couldn’t help biting her lip anxiously as she braced herself to take Grace’s weight, just in case her sister missed the ledge and started to fall.  


She had a brief image of Grace tumbling down under the wheels of the train and herself being pulled after her, not strong enough to keep them both up. Maybe no one would notice or hear them scream for help and the train would start moving, and then they’d be squashed flat, just like the pigeon she’d seen on the road that had been run over by a bus. It had been so squished up and broken that you could only tell it had been a bird at all because of the feathers...  


She shook her head quickly to clear the image, afraid that Grace might somehow see the thought inside her and be frightened by it. Luckily though her sister didn’t seem to be particularly worried about what she had to do. In fact, she didn’t even look at the long fall underneath them, just kept her eyes fixed firmly on Patsy and, in a soft little voice that was still the loudest sound she’d made since they arrived at the station, said ‘ook ook!’ to show that she was being a monkey as she jumped.

  
As it turned out they had perhaps overestimated how hard and high Grace needed to jump to clear the gap, so she ended up barrelling into Patsy and knocking the breath right out of her. They stumbled backwards, tripping over the case behind them and hanging onto each other as they staggered about. They very _nearly_ ended up tangled in a bruisey heap on the floor, but just about managed to keep their feet beneath them. Patsy felt a brief burst of triumph then, and just for a second it seemed like the hard part was over.  


Except of course, it wasn’t. Now that the ‘getting on the train’ part was done (and Patsy had done her big sisterly duty in feeding an imaginary banana to baby monkey Grace to say well done for getting into the tree), she discovered a new problem.  


There didn’t seem to be anywhere left to  _ sit _ .  
  


Every carriage was crammed with children, ranging from smartly dressed girls and boys with polished shoes and well scrubbed faces to those whose clothes were so ragged and grimy that it was hard to tell what colour they were supposed to be, or even what the garment had been originally.  
  


Patsy half wished she were a nicer sort of girl, one who could look past the muck and snot trails and see the children who were just like her really. If she were a Sunday School Story child she would offer one of the ragged children her coat to keep them warm, and would share out the lunch Mama had bought for them on the way to the station, even the tube of rolos ( _especially_ the rolos).  


She did none of these things however. Instead she remembered Mama’s warnings about not sitting next to anyone dirty, and heard the calls of ‘posh nob! What you staring at?’ and hurried Grace past them with her head lowered. She felt a little bit shaken. She wasn’t used to seeing real, up close poverty. The closest she had come was reading ‘The Little Match Girl’, but that was just a story, and it was an old, old story too, about a past that she’d thought was very different from modern times. She hadn’t realised that anyone was still really poor like that in England, especially not _children_. A part of her knew that that was important and something that she should think about, but she pushed it away. Today was already too scary without adding anything else.  


She pulled Grace determinedly on from carriage to carriage, all the way down the train.  


The very last carriage was maybe not _quite_ as crammed as the others had been, but its occupants were almost all much older, so grown up they almost weren’t children at all – 13 and 14 or maybe even older. Patsy hung back in the entrance, feeling shy and awkward. They couldn’t possibly just go and sit with the big girls (much less the big _boys_ ), but she didn’t want to go back either, trailing through all the full carriages and maybe getting shouted at again by someone who thought she was staring (and perhaps she had been a bit, but she didn’t _mean_ to).  


Grace tugged at her hand, trying to get her to keep walking.  


‘In a minute Grace! Just wait would you’.  


‘Patsyyyy’.  


She didn’t say anything else, but the single word came out as a whine, and Patsy knew it wouldn’t stop there if she didn’t do something soon. But  _ what _ ? She dithered helplessly, agonised and unable to make a decision.  


‘Do you two need a place to sit?’  


A guardian angel, sent straight from heaven to rescue her.  


Actually it was a big girl, coming up the aisle towards them and smiling at them both. The sleeves of her coat were a bit too short for her, and her shoes were the clumpy boys kind, but in that moment she was the most beautiful person Patsy had ever seen.  


‘ Oh! Yes  _ please _ !’  


‘Come on then lass, you come with me. Here, I’ll take that case for you, it can go up in the luggage rack with mine’.  


The girl swung the case up easily into the overhead storage, then led Patsy and Grace on to a space in the back corner of the carriage. It was quite a _little_ space, and once the big girl sat back down there would only be room for one of them to squeeze in next to her, even when she budged up tight against the wall. Patsy supposed she would have to let Grace take the seat, and stay standing herself or find a space among all the feet to sit on the floor. It hardly seemed fair, but she knew Grace would whinge worse than ever if she had to be the one to stand, even if they took turns.  


Again though, their new friend seemed to have all the answers.  


‘It’s a bit of a squeeze. Why don’t you-’ this was to Patsy ‘come and sit next to me, and your little sister can get up on my knee’.  


Patsy looked doubtfully at Grace, unsure she would agree to sit on a stranger’s knee, but before she could voice her doubts the girl turned to speak directly to Grace.  


‘Hello there, my name’s Phyllis. What’s yours?’  


Grace was sucking her fingers again, but she mumbled something that might have been ‘Grace’, without taking them out her mouth.  


Phyllis glanced briefly at Patsy, who clarified ‘she’s Grace, and I’m Patsy’. Phyllis gave her a nod of thanks, but didn’t miss a beat as she went on talking gently to Grace.  


‘Grace is a lovely name! Do you know Grace, I have some barley sugar sweeties in my coat pocket, and I thought you and your big sister could share them with me. Would you like that?’  


Grace nodded, and even went so far as to take her fingers out her mouth in anticipation of the treat.  


‘Well how about you come and sit with me so we can all be comfortable, and you can help me find them in my pocket, alright? Then I could tell you a story if you like. I know a really good one’.  


‘About a cat?’  


Grace whispered this, but her fingers were out of her mouth now, so the words were audible and Patsy grinned, knowing that Phyllis had won her over. Phyllis hesitated for just a second, but then nodded seriously and answered:  


‘Well, as it happens it _is_ about a cat! What a clever guess!’  


Grace beamed and let herself be lifted up into Phyllis’ lap while Patsy climbed onto the seat beside her and settled back with a sigh of relief.  


She wondered if the barley sugar might just be for Grace because she was the one that needed to be bribed, but once Phyllis had let Grace hunt through her pockets and take a sweet from the paper bag, she offered it to Patsy. For a while they all sucked in companionable silence, and for the first time that day Patsy felt herself relax, just a little.  


Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe they would get to stay in the same place as Phyllis, and then Patsy wouldn’t have to be the oldest all by herself anymore.  


As the train pulled out of the station and began to wend its slow way out of London, Phyllis started telling a story about a little brown kitten who lived in an old abandoned cellar with its mother. All the neighbourhood cats they met would turn up their noses when they went past, because they didn’t live in a house with humans to provide for them like the other cats did. They called the kitten a stray and laughed behind their paws and twitched their tails dismissively when she tried to play with them. The start of the story was so sad that Grace put her fingers back in her mouth, her eyes very big.  


Perhaps Phyllis noticed this, because all of a sudden things got better for the two cats. They left the dark cellar in the city and went away to the country where they started having all sorts of adventures. The mother cat got a job as a mouse catcher on the farm, and the kitten made friends with a plough horse and a frog and six little yellow chicks. It was a simple story, but Grace was enraptured. When at last Phyllis seemed to run out of ideas and ended with the two cats napping by a fire in a cosy cottage, their fur sleek and their stomachs full of cream, Grace sighed contentedly. She seemed to have lost her shyness throughout the course of the story, and as soon as it was done she launched into her own slightly confused account of Orlando the Marmalade cat and his wife Grace and their three kittens, bouncing eagerly on the lap of her new idol.  


Patsy thought she should probably join in the conversation rather than leaving Phyllis to do all the work of entertaining her sister, but she felt so comfortable now, too warm and sleepy to think of anything to say about Orlando, or any cat for that matter. Her eyelids drooped heavily. She had slept badly the night before, too worried about being evacuated even to close her eyes, and when she _had_ slept it had just been to jerk awake from yet another nightmare. She tried to fight it, but at last her head lolled against Phyllis’ shoulder, and she fell deeply asleep as the train rattled them onwards, into an unknown future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes the addition of ‘Schrödinger’s Phyllis’, because the Phyllis they meet on the train both is and is not the same Phyllis Crane we know and love. My young Phyllis is is admittedly based on our Nurse Crane, and I feel that the way an 8 year old Patsy might relate to a 14 year old Phyllis could be roughly equivalent to a young adult Patsy and a middle aged Phyllis (because the gulf between 8 and 14 is wide), but that’s also not to suggest that beyond the end of this fic, the real properly aged Phyllis (who definitely wouldn’t be 14 when Patsy was 8) isn’t also there, waiting to meet Patsy in Nonnatus House. She definitely is. So. Schrödinger’s Phyllis. (Otherwise known as 'having my cake and eating it').


	4. Delia

Delia flung herself at her grandmother, remembering just in time about the sticky hand and keeping it held off to one side as they hugged.  


‘Delia bach! It’s so good to see you! And Ada, how are you fy ngeneth i?’  


Mam gave what Delia considered to be an overly dramatic sigh and shook her head in response.  


‘Oh Mam, it’s been quite a journey. I don’t know how I’m going to do it all again later, I really don’t. First the bus was late, then so overcrowded there was hardly room to breath, and madam here was making a nuisance of herself the whole way here, never a _moment's_ peace. But perhaps it’s best that she gets her troublesome behaviour out on her poor mother now so you won’t have to suffer it. Of course she’s promised to be on her best behaviour while she’s here. Isn’t that _right_ Delia?’  


‘Yes Mam’.  


She managed to refrain from pointing it out, but Delia had in fact made no such promise. Mam was always telling people that Delia had promised solemnly to be good even though she hadn’t, as if by waiting until someone else was listening she might somehow make her mean it more, because there were Witnesses. What Mam didn’t know was that being told she had to be especially good always made Delia want to misbehave, rather than the reverse. Especially when Mam lied about her promising, because she was the one that was always saying that telling lies was Wrong.  


She _wouldn’t_ misbehave though, not for Nain. Well, no more than usual. A lot of the behaviour that Mam considered to be difficult or cheeky, Nain said was just the ‘natural exuberance of youth’ (exuberance was another good word, although she wasn’t absolutely sure what it meant) and a healthy interest in learning about the world. What that _really_ meant was that Nain didn’t mind her asking questions or jumping about, as long as she wasn’t being rude or doing something that would hurt anyone (or doing anything _truly_ naughty, like the time when she had used the good butter to grease the kitchen floor so she would be able to slide all the way from the door to the back wall in her bare feet. But that was a long time ago – she had only been six then and didn’t understand how bad she was being).  


Mam and Nain spent the walk talking about boring grown up things like buses and bedtimes and people Delia had never heard of, so she ran on a little way ahead. She wanted to be the first one to get to Nain’s house and the cosy room she always slept in, tucked up in the attic with its own little staircase and wooden eaves where Delia could pin as many pictures as she liked, and even draw right on the beams as long as she just used chalk. It had been Mam’s room when _she_ was a little girl, and there were still one or two of _her_ old chalk drawings left on a high up beam, very faded now and only visible if you climbed up on a stool and craned your neck just right. It was hard to imagine Mam as a little girl, drawing secret pictures on her bedroom beams; especially because now-Mam probably would have scrubbed them off if she knew they were there. She didn’t like the chalk drawings. She said they made the room look untidy and wanted Nain not to let Delia do it anymore, but Nain said it was her house and she liked them, and that was that.  


The cottage looked just as she remembered, with its cheerful butter yellow door and the familiar garden gnomes peeking from various hiding places among the flowers and shrubs. Delia had gone through a phase a couple of years ago of adoring garden gnomes, and had made the first of Nain’s out of clay for her as a birthday present. It looked poor and lumpy beside its shop bought siblings and had to live inside because it had started dissolving the first time it rained, but Nain said that no matter how many she got that one would always be her favourite. Delia peered in through the front window now, and sure enough, there was her lopsided little gnome, sitting proudly on the windowsill where he could see out into the garden and be seen by visitors as soon as they arrived. Nain never hid gifts from Delia away, even the ones she had made ages ago that really weren’t very good, when you looked at them with grown up seven-going-on-eight year old eyes.  


Delia was about to push open the door so she could run up to her room and see if Nain had added any new books to the shelves since she was last here (Nain was always on the lookout for good second hand story books for her, and often picked up bargains for a penny or two at library sales or second hand market stalls), when Mam shouted for her to ‘wait right there young lady, don’t you dare get your sticky fingers all over everything!’  


As if she  _ would _ !  


She waited impatiently while Mam and Nain made their slow, sloooow way to the door, then Mam took a firm hold of Delia’s wrist and marched her straight through to the kitchen, holding the offending hand out in front of them as if it might flail around and smear itself on the walls and furniture of its own accord otherwise. She submitted as patiently as she could to the scrubbing with soap, water and a nail brush that Mam subjected her to, though she was much more interested in the plate of ginger biscuits sitting temptingly on the kitchen table, just out of reach.  


‘Mam, that _hurts_ , it’s clean now honestly!’  


Mam gave a final, extra hard scrub and then released her at last.  


‘Alright, dry your hands on a tea towel then. No, leave the biscuits alone’- she had seen the direction of Delia’s gaze- ‘those are for later, and you’ve had plenty of sugar as it is’.  


That wasn’t fair. Nain _always_ let her have a biscuit when they arrived. It was why she baked on visit days and left the plate out ready instead of putting the biscuits away in a tin. Sometimes she would even bring a glass of milk and a biscuit up to the attic, and they would read her newest book together while she had her snack.  


‘ But Ma-aam, I  _ always _ -’  


Mam talked over her, which was rude when Delia did it but fine for grown ups.  


‘Once your hands are dry you can go and take your shoes off and hang your coat up nicely. I suppose _I’d_ better carry your case upstairs so you can unpack, I don’t want you dragging it up and bashing the paintwork, and poor Nain might do herself a mischief struggling with it, it is a bit unwieldy’.  


Mam bustled off to fetch the case from where she’d left it on the doorstep, and Delia reluctantly left the biscuits untouched to hurry after her. She wanted to get up to the attic first, before Mam could start fussing about in there, rearranging things and putting the case down on the bed so that she couldn’t flop down on it properly. The room felt _different_ if someone else went in before Delia – less like it belonged to her.  


Normally it would have been the work of seconds to remove her outdoor things and rush up the stairs before Mam even made it back in from the garden, but now she found herself hampered by her stiff ‘for best’ shoes. Precious moments were wasted in struggling with the buckle and pulling hard on each one to free her feet of the unyielding leather, and she rather wished she’d worn her old lace up shoes after all. They were clumpy and a bit scuffed, but much comfier, and they were used to her feet so they came off easily.  


Now she thought about it, it was going to be very difficult to play properly if she only had her best shoes to wear. How could she go walking in the woods or trek across fields where there might be mud or cow pats if she was stuck in her church shoes? They’d leak as soon as she stepped in even the smallest puddle, and scuff if she so much as _looked_ at a tree, let alone climbed one (not that she was really supposed to climb trees anyway). Why hadn’t Mam said no when she’d asked to wear them? She _always_ said no. Alright, it had been Delia’s idea, but Mam was the grown up, she was supposed to know better.  


By the time she had _finally_ got the shoes off and put them away, Mam was already halfway up the attic stairs.  


She was beginning to feel a bit fed up with Mam, and thought probably the sooner she went off home the better, because she always spoiled everything, even nice things like jelly babies and visits to Nain. She very _nearly_ pulled a face to relieve some of her feelings – her really awful one with crossed eyes and a scrunched up nose and her tongue waggling in the rudest way she could manage. Only last time she’d done that Mam had turned around unexpectedly and caught her and there had been a big fuss and a long lecture about ‘being properly respectful’. It wasn’t worth getting in trouble all over again so soon after the jelly baby goo; so she just stumped up the stairs instead, muttering dark complaints in the privacy of her own head.  
  


By the time she got into her room the big case was dumped right in the middle of her bed, completely ruining the effect of the pretty quilt and making it impossible to lie down and get reacquainted with all the pictures she’d forgotten about since her last visit. Mam was over by the window, fiddling about with the sash and reminding Delia to be very careful with it and not ever to lean out because it was a very long way down –  as if she was a baby who needed to be told not to fall out a window. She had stayed in this room hundreds of times and never once got hurt. Mam bustled about for a few more minutes, tutting at the chalk and pressing the pins holding her pictures up to make sure they couldn’t fall and be trodden on.  
  


When there was nothing left that could possibly be moved about or fussed over, she left Delia with a final reminder not to jump on the bed or climb on the high stool (or do anything _else_ that might be the least bit fun) and went back downstairs to make tea.  


Delia was supposed to unpack her case right away, but as soon as Mam was gone, she decided it could wait until later. Nain had added _two_ new books to her bookshelf, a new Just William (‘William the Outlaw’) and one called ‘Emily of New Moon’. That one was quite a hard book, the sort Nain usually read to her, but it looked interesting and was written by the same lady as her ‘Anne of Green Gables’, so she thought it would be worth trying for herself. After hauling the case down from her bed to the floor, she selected the Emily book and settled down to read.  


She had expected to have to go down any minute to have tea with Mam and Nain, but they didn’t call her. At the end of the first chapter she wondered vaguely if she should go and see what they were doing, but it had ended with the line “Did you know your pa has only a week or two more to live?” and it was so dramatic that Delia couldn’t bear not to keep going and find out what happened next.  


The next chapters were so sad – first with Emily’s father dying and then Emily being all alone with no one left who really loved her, and having to go off and live with people she didn’t know, that Delia stayed completely absorbed. She _meant_ to start unpacking her case, she really did. Only she wanted to read through the sad part and get to a bit where things were at least starting to get better for Emily; so she didn’t notice the time passing. Not until Mam was suddenly there in the doorway.  


‘Delia? For heaven's sake you haven’t even _opened_ your case! Why didn’t you come downstairs if you weren’t going to bother with unpacking? I’d have come and done it myself if I knew you were going to be so lazy! I wanted to see you all settled before I had to go, but it’s too late now, I need to go and catch my bus. This is not a very good start, is it?’  


‘Sorry Mam’. It came out sounding sulky, but she couldn’t help it because she _wasn’t_ sorry, not really.  


All Delia’s irritation with Mam, which had subsided during the peaceful time alone reading her new book, flared up again stronger than ever. Why did it matter if she unpacked now or later? Why did Mam always, _always_ have to tell her off? And she had thought they would all have tea together before it was time to say goodbye, only they hadn’t called her and she had missed it and they probably hadn’t even saved her any biscuits, and now Mam was just _going_. It made Delia’s tummy feel funny to think that, but the hot, angry part of her was _glad_ Mam was leaving now, because maybe if she just went away then Nain would read to her and let her have as many biscuits as she liked and people would stop treating her like she was bad or silly when she hadn’t done _anything_.  


Mam sighed.  


‘Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done now, you’ll just have to unpack later. I’m about to go to the bus stop. Would you like to walk there with me?’  


Part of Delia thought maybe she should, because she wouldn’t see Mam after this for weeks and weeks at least, but most of her was still too annoyed, and what would be the point in walking all the way back to the bus stop, only to turn round and come right back? Especially if Mam was going to spend the whole journey lecturing her and finding new things to tell her that she mustn’t do while she was here.  


‘No thanks. I’d better stay here and unpack, since it’s _so_ important that I do it right away’.  


That had definitely come out in a way that Mam normally said was insolent, and might even have earned her a smack on the back of the legs. For some reason though Mam didn’t comment, just seemed to gather herself together and nodded tightly. Maybe she didn’t notice the Rude Tone.  


‘Alright Delia, you stay here if you want to. Come and give me a hug goodbye though’.  


Delia did so, a little stiffly. She remembered the last hug she had tried to give Mam, and kept her fists curled up tightly, just in case there was any stray jelly baby stickiness that had been missed in the scrubbing process.  


‘Bye Mam’.  


‘ Goodbye  c ariad. I’ll see you again soon, alright?’  


Mam kept holding onto her for longer than usual, but then sighed again and let her go. She paused in the doorway, as if she was expecting Delia to say or do something else, but after a moment of silence, she went back downstairs without another word.  


Delia heard murmuring down in the hall as Mam and Nain said their goodbyes, then the sound of the door closing with a very final sort of ‘click’.  


She threw herself down onto her bed then, burying her face in the pillow that smelled familiar and Nain’s House-ish, but still felt different to _her_ pillow. She wasn’t sure what was the matter with her. She still felt angry with Mam, and sort of glad that she had gone, but it was mixed up with more confusing feelings as well.  


She supposed she really had better unpack her case, since she had promised she would and Mam had been _so_ insistent. And maybe everything would feel more normal when the room was filled with all her own things.  


The clasps that kept it shut were stiff, and Delia hurt her hand a bit pulling and tugging at them, but at last she managed to get them free and flung back the lid. The first thing she noticed was that there definitely weren’t any metal lungs, or the leg strap thingies, and felt a twinge of relief knowing that she absolutely definitely _didn’t_ have polio and Mam hadn’t been lying about why she was here.  


The next thing was the biscuit tin. It was such a strange thing for Mam to pack for her that she just stared at it for a moment before realising that there was probably something inside. She lifted the lid carefully, expecting to find her wash things, or maybe even the beads and buttons and bits of ribbon she used to make jewellery, packed in the tin so they wouldn’t roll around and get in a tangle. What she didn’t expect, but maybe should have given that it was a _biscuit_ tin, was to find the tin really was full of biscuits. They were the nice sugary crumbly kind with raisins in that Mam sometimes made for a treat, and there was a note on top of them that said ‘to share with your new school friends’, and the sight of them made Delia’s tummy feel even funnier. Mam _knew_ she’d feel nervous about having to go to a new school, and she had made these for Delia so she could start out as ‘the girl who brought everyone biscuits’ instead of just ‘the new girl’; even though it all the sugar and raisins needed to make enough for the whole class must have cost a lot of money, and usually they had to be careful with money.  


Normally Delia would have been tempted to try one (just to make sure they’d come out alright), but somehow she didn’t quite fancy it right now, not with the tight churny feeling in her tummy getting stronger every minute. Instead she put the lid back on and put the tin aside to unpack the rest of the case. Mam had packed plenty of clothes for her, including two old, scruffy dresses she could wear to play proper messy games, not just smart clothes that she had to be careful in.  She lifted out her school tunic and freshly washed and ironed blouses, two jumpers, then a stack of clean underwear and socks, and then she got to her pyjamas.  


Unlike the rest of her clothes, these hadn’t been folded carefully into neat squares to keep them from getting creased. Instead they were wrapped and bundled around something that was hidden in their soft depths. Delia had to bite her lip hard to keep from crying when she saw that.  


It was a battle they had every time they stayed away from home. Delia would try to make a cosy nest for Biscuit, her cuddly toy rabbit (as a baby, ‘biscuit’ was one of the first words she had learned to say, and she had used it to mean anything she especially wanted. Aside from actual biscuits, that had most often meant her then-new toy rabbit, and even after she learned to talk properly the name had stuck). Mam would always find him wrapped up in her pyjamas when she checked the case and would tell her off, because it wasted space and would get her pyjamas creased. Delia argued that it was only pyjamas and no one would see her in them as she’d be in bed, so it didn’t matter, and she wanted Biscuit to be comfy on the journey and not get scared having to be inside the case by himself. Until now Mam had always told her not to be silly, Biscuit didn’t really have feelings so he couldn’t be scared. Only now _she’d_ wrapped him up, without even being asked.   
  


Delia had to just sit and hug Biscuit tight for a while after that before she could carry on unpacking,  rubbing her cheek against his long ears  and blinking hard .  
  


Normally a toy rabbit wouldn’t particularly appeal to her –  a lion would have been more interesting, or an elephant, or a  _ dragon _ ... but Biscuit was different. He was a bit worn and shabby now, but he was still Delia’s best thing and she couldn’t get to sleep without him. He reminded her of sitting on Mam’s lap when she was very, very little, watching as Mam made him hop about in front of her eyes. Every time the bunny hopped, Mam would bounce her knees so that Delia would hop too. It used to make her laugh so much she couldn’t sit up straight and she’d beg for more. Sometimes Mam would call Delia her ‘little Delia Bunny-sby’ and tie her hair up into two high up bunches like bunny ears (they probably didn’t look much like ears at all, but her toddler self had believed in them completely), and she would thump around the lounge twitching her nose and imagining she really was a rabbit. Biscuit was full up with all the good soft memories of bedtimes and story times and little girly games like that. He made everything feel safe.  


Every other time she’d been on holiday, Biscuit was the only toy she was allowed to take with her (one toy and one book, that was always, always the rule), but this time Mam had packed her colouring pencils as well, AND a stack of paper for drawing on. It all had old letters or receipts or boring things on one side, but the backs were clean and bare and perfect for drawing. Her beads and buttons and jewellery making things were there too, packed into an old pillow case along with her needle case (the one shaped like a tiny red book with cloth pages to stick the needles into) and a bobbin of thread, and some bits and pieces of fabric left over from making clothes. They were mostly quite _little_ bits, but they'd be big enough to make tiny clothes for peg dolls, and maybe even something for Biscuit with the bigger piece of grey flannel (grey was boring, but she could liven it up with ribbons and bright buttons and make something really smart).  


Mam hadn’t stuck to her one book rule either, and Delia found several of her favourites stacked under the toys, though they must have made the case even heavier to carry. Looking at them made her realise how much she’d have missed them if she’d had to stay here for months and months without getting to read ‘A Little Princess’ (her go to story whenever she felt lonely) or ‘The Enchanted Wood’ (her newest favourite that she hadn’t even had a chance to read all the way through yet) for the entire time.  


The case was nearly empty now, but there, right at the bottom, under her wash bag, were her comfy old lace up shoes. Mam hadn’t forgotten them at all.  


Delia should have been relieved to see them, because it meant that she would be able to play properly rather than having to wear her smart shoes all the time. She should have felt thrilled at all the nice surprises Mam had packed in the case for her, but for some reason she didn’t feel happy at all. She felt _awful._ Her tummy was churning worse than ever so that she thought she might actually be sick, and her eyes felt hot and achey. She felt _so_ bad that she wondered if she might really be ill, and thought she’d better tell Nain so she could be put to bed with a sick bowl and some ginger tea. Maybe Mam would come back right away if she was ill and take her home, or at least stay to look after her...  


‘Nain?’  


No answer.  


‘ _ Nain? _ ’  


Her voice came out small and wobbly even when she tried to shout, and suddenly having her room up in the attic didn’t feel special and grown up anymore, it felt lonely and far away from everything.  


Nain couldn’t hear her calling.  


Probably that was just because she was all the way downstairs and Delia’s throat was feeling strange and tight so the sound didn’t come out right. But what if Nain was gone? Surely she wouldn’t just go out somewhere without telling her… but what if she had?  


Delia clattered down the two flights of stairs, feeling panicked and desperate to reassure herself that she wasn’t here on her own. She ran through the empty lounge and into the kitchen, where Nain should have been standing by the sink, or at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Only she wasn’t in here  _ either _ . Instead, sitting in the middle of the scrubbed wooden table next to the untouched plate of biscuits, was the bag of jelly babies.  


At the sight of them Delia burst into tears. She had been so cross with Mam earlier for scolding and taking back the jelly babies and letting her wear her silly party shoes, but now she missed her so much it hurt. She wondered if she could run to the bus stop and catch her before she left, tell her that she didn’t want to stay with Nain after all, she wanted to come  _ home.  
_

But it was too late.  


The bus would already be gone, and now she wouldn’t see  M am for months and months, and there’d be all the crossness between them all that time, when Delia should have hugged  M am properly and said thank you and told her she loved her and now it was too  _ LATE.  
_

She wished that she hadn’t started reading the Emily book, because it was making her think really, truly scary thoughts. Like, what if Mam died and they never saw each other again? Anything could happen to her, the bus she was on might crash, or there might be a bad accident at her Women’s War Work, or she could get sick like Emily’s  D ad in the book. Then the last thing she said to her would have been the stiff, cross goodbye, and Mam would never know that she was sorry for asking too many questions and making a mess with the jelly baby and not unpacking when she was told to. Delia would be an orphan then, and she’d probably have to go to hell too, for letting Mam die thinking that she hated her when she  _ didn’t _ .  


And she really,  _ really  _ didn’t want to be an orphan. She didn’t even want Nain and the biscuits and the jelly babies. She wanted  _ Mam _ . She wanted her so, so badly, more than she’d ever wanted anything in her whole life.  


Delia was crying too hard now even to keep calling for Nain, she just stood in the kitchen and sobbed. Her face was wet with tears and her nose had started to run, but her handkerchief was all the way back upstairs in the attic, and she couldn’t make her legs work to go up and get it. She was so upset that she didn’t notice Nain coming in from the back garden until she dropped her armful of runner beans on the floor and hurried over to her, not even bothering to take off her muddy gardening boots first.  


‘Delia? Oh cariad, what is it? What’s the matter?’  


She couldn't manage a reply, just threw her arms around Nain’s neck and howled into her cardigan.  


‘Alright cariad bach, it’s alright. I’m here’.  


Nain reached down to fumble one handed with her shoes. Luckily the boots she kept for gardening had been Taid’s before he died and were much too big for her, so Nain was able to step out of them without much trouble. Then her arms were around Delia properly, and she felt herself being lifted right up and held close, like a little, little girl. Nain carried her through to the lounge and sat down with her on the big old arm chair. She didn’t ask again what was wrong, just mopped Delia’s face gently with a clean, soft hankie and then rocked her slowly to and fro on her lap while she cried.  


‘Never mind cariad, you just let it all out. It’s been a funny sort of day for you, it’s no wonder you need a good cry. I’ve got you babi, you’re safe with your Nain’.  


It was funny, when Mam called Delia a baby it was always ‘you’re being a baby Delia, stop that!’ but when Nain said it it sounded like a nice thing to be – small and safe and loved. Somehow that thought made her feel even more muddled though, and a fresh wave of crying overtook her. It seemed like quite a long time of crying and mopping with the handkerchief and then crying some more before Delia calmed down enough to try and speak.  


Even once she had reached the shaky, snuffly, wrung out stage she still couldn’t figure out which part to say first. In the end she settled for:  


‘Do you think Mam’s really, really cross with me?’  


‘Oh cariad, is that what this is about?’  


Delia nodded, not feeling quite up to explaining all about the case and the sick feelings and maybe being an orphan and hell and all of it. It was too much to fit it into words.  


‘Of course your Mam isn’t cross with you babi. She loves you so much, she just wanted to make sure you’d be safe and looked after, she didn’t bring you here because you did anything wrong’.  


Mam had told her the same sort of thing on the bus, but Nain didn’t understand, that had been  _ before _ .  


‘Yes but… but then _I_ was ever so cross with _her_. And so now maybe she’s cross back and maybe… maybe she even thinks I don’t love her anymore. Maybe she thinks I _hate_ her’.  


‘No, she won’t think that. We all get cross with people we love sometimes, but it doesn’t mean we love them any less. You don’t really think your Mam stops loving _you_ when she scolds you, do you? Even when you’ve been really, really naughty?’  


Delia thought about the time she had played being the Snow Queen with the long white lacy dress that Mam used to keep wrapped up in a box under her bed. It had been a lovely game -until she had tripped over the too long hem and there had been an awful ripping noise. Her knees had got all scraped at the same time and a little bit of blood soaked through the skirt, and Mam had said it was _completely ruined_ (she had been _absolutely furious_ , but had still cleaned Delia’s knees up and put sticking plasters on the deepest cuts).  


Or there was the time when she had taken Mam’s sewing scissors to play hairdressers with Bronwen and had somehow got a bit carried away so that Bronwen ended up having to have her hair cut really short, like a boy (Bronwen’s Mam had cried when she saw the curls scatters on the floor around them and they hadn’t been allowed to play together until her hair had grown back down to her shoulders which, it turned out, took _ages_ ). Mam had been so angry for so long that Delia had thought she might stay cross forever and her life would be one long string of punishments until she was an old, old lady who _still_ wasn’t allowed to touch scissors EVER…  


But had she thought Mam actually _hated_ her?  


No.  


She knew Mam loved her even when her face went a funny colour and she was so angry that she couldn’t speak and had to send Delia to her room until she’d calmed down enough to shout at her properly. Even when she smacked her legs hard enough to leave  pink slap marks that didn’t fade for  ages , or confiscated her books and sent her to bed early every night for a week.  


Mam loved her.  


‘No... But maybe it’s different for grown ups?’  


‘Well, you’ve come to the right person to ask, because I’ve been a little girl, and I’ve been a grown up, and I’ve had a little girl of my own, and now I’ve tried them all I can tell you for absolute certain that it’s no different at all. You just understand it a bit better when you’re grown up, because you’ve had more practise. Your Mam and I used to get angry with each other too sometimes, but I never once doubted that she loved me, and I never stopped loving her. Not even for a minute’.  


‘I bet Mam was never naughty like me though’.  


Nain laughed.  


‘Don’t you believe it cariad, your Mam had her share of naughtiness. There was one occasion when she was just a bit older than you, and she-’ but then she paused, glancing down at Delia’s still tear stained but now rather interested face ‘-but maybe I shouldn't tell you’.  


‘ Oh  _ Nain _ ! Please? Please, please, please?’  


‘Well... if I do you must absolutely promise that you won’t ever, ever try doing the same thing yourself. I meant it, this isn’t like getting a black eye because you’d read Just William and wanted to try a game of lions and tamers. This is serious’.

  
Delia nodded solemnly, feeling slightly in awe of whatever her mother had done. She had thought getting the black eye _was_ serious – her teacher had certainly seemed to think so, even though they’d explained that Joyce didn’t _mean_ to hit her with her elbow, it was just that she was a lion that wasn’t tamed yet, so she _had_ to flail about a bit or what was the point of even having a tamer? For some reason Mrs Evans hadn’t quite seen it that way, and had made them both stay in to write lines while she called their mothers into school for A Talk.

  
The black eye had _really hurt_ too, but Mam had told her that it was less than she deserved for fighting (even though it hadn’t _been_ a fight, and she’d told and _told_ Mam that), and maybe next time she’d act like a proper young lady instead of a common gutter child. Then she’d said she had never been more ashamed in her life, and how was she supposed to look the Vicar in the eye on Sunday, ‘ _just tell me that?_ ’. Delia pointed out that _she_ was the one with the sore eye, so if it would be difficult for anyone to look at the Vicar, surely it would be her and not Mam, but Mam just told her to stop being cheeky and go to her room _._ She hadn’t been allowed any pudding for two whole weeks after that, and Mam had tutted crossly every time she saw her until the bruise faded.

  
And yet Nain was saying that this story was even worse than _that_? What could Mam possibly have done? Maybe she had been a real criminal and burned down houses, or _murdered_ someone.

  
‘I promise Nain, I won’t ever, ever, ever try it’.

  
Nain scrutinised her for a moment, as if trying to decide whether Delia really meant it, then nodded.

  
‘Alright then. It happened when your Mam was, oh, nine years old? Her best friend Carys came to school one day boasting that she’d been allowed a glass of brandy with her uncle the night before. Of course Ada couldn’t bear to be left out and was determined to try it for herself just as soon as she could manage it. The pair of them were forever trying to prove to each other how grown up they were, and what one had the other wouldn’t rest until she got it too. Anyway, your Mam asked me for some brandy that evening. Well, I think she knew she wouldn’t really be allowed, because she tried to be cunning about it, slipping it ever so casually into conversation. It was: ‘Oh Mam, I think I’ll have brandy instead of milk before bed tonight, all the other girls do’.

  
I’m afraid your Taid and I just laughed at her. Of course we knew the other girls in her class weren’t drinking brandy, but poor Ada was furious with us. She stomped off to her room and wouldn’t come out all evening, not even for her tea. I did hear her creep downstairs at one point, but I thought she’d just gotten hungry and come down for a piece of bread. It was a bit naughty of her, since she had refused her tea and had no one to blame but herself if she regretted it later. But Taid was a soft touch, and said we should let her go ahead if it made her feel better, it would all have blown over by morning and we could all talk about it properly then’.

  
‘And _did_ it all blow over?’

  
Delia felt quite disappointed that the big story of Mam being naughty was just her sneaking food from the larder after she’d refused her tea, even if she _had_ also been sulky about the brandy. It didn’t seem anything like as serious as half the things Delia had been in trouble for. But Nain laughed again and shook her head, so that wasn’t the end after all.

  
‘No, of course it didn’t. We let her fetch her secret tea and tiptoe back up to her room, and thought no more about it until I went up to put her to bed an hour or two later. I found her lying on the floor with the bottle of sherry we kept for trifle lying half empty next to her. She hadn’t been after bread at all, she’d snuck down to the pantry and taken the nearest thing to brandy she could find, and she drank _far_ more than one little glass of it, I can tell you’.

  
‘ _Mam_ did?’

  
It was hard to believe. Mam didn’t even like sherry (not even in trifle), and yet she’d once stolen a bottle of it and drunk it? It really _was_ naughtier than the lions and tamers had been. Naughtier even that cutting off Bronwen’s curls (which after all, no one had actually told her she wasn’t allowed to do, but Nain and Taid had _both_ told Mam she wasn’t allowed any brandy).

  
‘She did. It gave me the fright of my life to see her lying there, I thought she’d put herself into a coma. So much alcohol can be poisonous you know, especially to such a little girl’.

  
‘Did Mam get _poisoned_? Did she have to go to hospital?’

  
‘She didn’t have to go to hospital, but she was very, very sick. She had a miserable night, and the next day her head hurt and she still felt sick and achey most of the day. Sometimes when you drink too much at once, you wake up feeling like you have very bad flu, even if you’re a grown up. I can only imagine how much worse it must have been for Ada’.

  
Delia had had flu once and felt so poorly she thought she might be dying. She hadn’t even been able to read a book or walk to the toilet on her own, or eat or drink anything more than little sips of water.  
  
  
‘ Poor Mam’.

  
‘Yes, it was a hard lesson for her, but she learned it alright. To this day I’ve never seen her touch another drop of alcohol – I think the memory of it still makes her feel a little sick. The silliest thing was that I spoke to Carys’ parents later, and they told me she’d been allowed the tiniest sip from one of their glasses and hadn’t even liked it! And yet the foolish girl had boasted so much about her glass of brandy that Ada nearly poisoned herself trying to impress her’.

  
‘ Oh! She  _ lied _ ?’

  
‘That’s right. There’s a little lesson for you too there Delia, about boasting and listening to boasts. It can be very easy to get carried away, but it’ll usually get you in trouble in the end’.  


Delia nodded, and for a while they sat together in comfortable silence, thinking about mothers and daughters and all the complicated things they had between them (and maybe a little bit about what it would be like to drink so much sherry you were sick _all night_ and ended up hating trifle, even though trifle was one of the best puddings in the world).  


‘Nain?’  


‘Yes cariad?’  


‘Do you think Mam’s alright?’  


‘Yes I do. I’m sure she’ll miss you as much as you will her, but I think she’ll be just fine, and you’ll see her again soon’.  


‘But what if… what if something happened to Mam, before I next go home? What if…’  


She swallowed. Even now she didn’t feel really properly sad anymore, it was hard to get the words out.  


‘ \- what if Mam dies? People  _ do  _ die, don’t they, when there’s a war? And sometimes people die anyway. Emily’s dad died in my book’.  


Nain’s arms tightened around her, cuddling her so close that she couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit safer.  


‘ That’s true. But there’s no reason to think anything bad will happen to your Mam babi. She’s perfectly healthy and she’s very sensible, she won’t take any risks. I know war is a big, frightening thing, but we don’t need to worry  _ too  _ much here. We’re in one of the safest places in the whole of Britain. That’s why the government has decided to send children out from the cities to stay in places like this, where they’ll be as safe as can be. And besides, we’ve got our brave soldiers  looking after us all ’.  


‘Dad’s a soldier now’.  


The ‘brave soldiers’ bit had been a reminder that there would still be things to be frightened about even if Mam was right here in the room instead of on a bus back to their empty house, with no Dad or Delia waiting there for her _ .  
_

‘ I know cariad. And I know you’re worried about him, but your Dad is a good,  brave man, and he’ll do everything he can to come home safely to you. We’re going to write him lots of letters to help him feel cheerful, and we’ll say a special prayer and light a candle every night to ask God to keep him safe, and I’m sure he’ll listen. Alright?’  


Delia nodded. It was a good idea and she did feel _mostly_ better, but still a little bit scared too. She wondered if maybe she would just always feel a little bit scared now, until the war finished and everyone was home safe. She thought about Dad, learning to be a soldier somewhere in England, and Mam, getting ready for her Women’s War Work.  


‘ Can I write a letter to Dad  _ now _ ? And one to Mam, too? Because I want to say sorry about being cross and thank you for the biscuits, and for Biscuit, and my books and toys and shoes and jelly babies, and-’ she paused, trying to think what else there had been, because she wanted to make sure she mentioned everything in the letter so that Mam would know that she’d noticed and was properly grateful ‘-and for not lying about the polio’.  


Nain looked a little bit confused for a moment (because she didn’t know about the polio), but then she gave Delia a great big smile, and said ‘that sounds like a very, very good idea’.


	5. Patsy

Patsy woke up with a start,  turning automatically to  peer at the sleeve her cheek had been resting against,  checking for creases or smudges left by her thoughtless leaning .  Mama would be so cross if she’d spoiled it... Except, she realised, the sleeve was made of rough brown wool, not the smooth (but oh so delicate) cream silk of her mother’s blouse. She blinked at it stupidly, her sleep-fuddled mind trying to figure out what she was seeing.  


As she stared at the unfamiliar fabric, the missing pieces of her day trickled slowly back into place; along with a dull, aching heaviness that had little to do with the last vestiges of sleep.  
  


Evacuation.  


The train journey.  


Grace.  


But also the big girl who had come to their rescue.  


She looked up cautiously at Phyllis as she thought that, wondering why she hadn’t shaken her awake and told her to stop smothering her like Mama would have (‘give me room to breath darling, you’ll spoil my silk!’).  


The older girl caught Patsy’s eye and gave her a friendly sort of smile over the top of Grace’s head. She didn’t _look_ annoyed, not even at the fact that Grace had apparently worn herself out with the excitement of telling a captive audience all about Orlando, and was now sprawled across Phyllis’ lap in a deep sleep. She wasn’t dribbling or kicking out the way she sometimes did at home, thank _goodness_ , but it was a little bit embarrassing, even so.  


They had only just met Phyllis, and yet here they both were, Patsy leaning up against her and Grace draped across her lap, fast asleep rather than sitting up nicely and acting properly gracious. Mama would have been appalled if she could see them. Especially because Patsy was beginning to realise that Mama probably wouldn’t approve of Phyllis at all –  not even to speak to, let alone to sleep on. Phyllis wasn’t a bit dirty, but one of her coat buttons didn’t match the others, and the hem of her dress had been let right down as far as it could go but was still a bit short for her. She could hear Mama’s voice in her head telling her that Phyllis was Not Their Sort.  


You weren’t supposed to be friends with people who were Not Your Sort, even if they were really nice. _Even_ if they could have been your favourite person in the whole world, if only they were allowed to be.  


Like Mei Ling.  


Mei Ling had been the niece of their first majie in Singapore, who had occasionally come to the house with her Aunt on days when Mama and Daddy were both out.  


For a brief, happy period they had been best friends. Mei Ling had taught Patsy a few words in Cantonese, which was very different to English or French and tripped her tongue up, but had been so interesting to learn and felt nice to say (even though Patsy had never been able to say some of the words right. Sometimes she'd think she had copied what Mei Ling said exactly, only to have her shake her head and laugh so hard she would crease up and hold her tummy because saying it that way meant something different, but Patsy didn’t mind. Mei Ling laughed easily, and she never meant it unkindly).  


She also had the absolute best ideas for games –  especially explorers, where they had climbed perilous mountains that no one had ever dared climb before (the stairs), or crawled through the deepest, darkest caves in search of long forgotten treasure (under the bed), and sometimes had to fight off the  crocodiles or  cobras or cave monsters that lurked in them, hungry for unwary explorers to fall into their clutches. They had been very different sorts of games to the ones she played with the daughters of Mama’s friends, and Patsy had adored her for them.  


Only then there had come the truly awful day when Mama had come home early and found Mei Ling and Patsy in the kitchen together, helping her Auntie make lunch (and nibbling on the odd raisin or bit of raw biscuit dough when her back was turned). Mama had seized Patsy by the arm and dragged her all the way upstairs to her bedroom, not saying a single word to her the whole time, not even when she stumbled and banged her knee hard. She had shut her in her room and Patsy had had to stay there all day long without any lunch _or_ any supper, so she got so hungry that it actually hurt. Grace hadn’t even been allowed in to play with her, though Patsy heard her on the other side of the door crying and calling for her until Maud shushed her and led her away.  


The next day Mei Ling’s Auntie didn’t come and they had to have bread and butter and cold ham for lunch _and_ for supper, and the day after that there was a new majie. This one called her ‘Miss Patience’ and wouldn’t answer any questions about what had happened to their old majie, or let her set so much as a single foot inside the kitchen.  


Even though no one exactly said so, Patsy understood that Mei Ling and her Aunt had been sent away in disgrace; and that it had been her fault _,_ because she had played with Mei Ling. Mama had made it clear that that was a Very Bad Thing to do, but she didn’t know _why_ it was bad.  


She wondered what was going to happen to them. Would Mei Ling be playing with a different girl in a new house instead of coming to play with her? Or would her Auntie not have a job at all and have to live on the street and be a beggar? Mei Ling didn’t have a Daddy anymore and her Auntie had helped pay for things for Mei Ling and her baby brother, so if she couldn’t anymore then maybe _they’d_ have to be beggars too.  


She thought about Mei Ling being cold and frightened, out on the dark street at night with no bed and nothing to eat for day after day, so that she creased up with hunger pains instead of laughter. It was such a scary, horrible thought that she had cried herself to sleep that night, even though she was six and too old to cry unless she was really, really hurt.  


After that she had been very careful to only play with the girls Mama introduced her to, even if they were the very dull sort who just wanted to show off their new dresses and maybe play a quiet game of snakes and ladders. She had been bored and hated it, and missed Mei Ling terribly; but she knew now what Mama would do if she played with the Wrong Sort. She couldn’t ever let it happen again.  


But this time was different.  


_ This  _ time, Mama wasn’t here.  


So maybe it was true that Phyllis was not Mama’s sort, but Patsy decided right there and then that she  _ was  _ her sort. And she was Grace’s sort too, because Grace was usually anxious of strangers and would never have agreed to sit on her lap and confide about her precious Orlando if she wasn’t.  


And maybe it wasn’t even just Phyllis. Maybe they’d be able to choose their _own_ sort from now on. If she was _really_ lucky, maybe there’d even be another girl out there, wherever they were going, who might want to be friends. One who knew how to play proper, interesting games, and who liked to read the same sorts of stories she did, and who laughed easily, right from her belly so you knew she meant it, instead of tittering behind her hands like a little lady.  


Maybe.  


She still didn’t like being evacuated, but Patsy was very, very glad that Mama couldn’t appear and drag them away from this lovely new thought.  


She felt so giddy with it in fact that she returned Phyllis’ smile with a beam of her own, letting her legs kick out a little at the unexpected freedom.  


Phyllis laughed at the sight of her sudden good humour.  


‘That’s it lass, kick up your heels! You’ve certainly cheered up, that sleep must have done you good’.  


She nodded.  


‘I’ve decided that everything’s going to be alright after all. We made it onto the train, and we got a place to sit and made a new friend already-’ another big smile at Phyllis ‘-we’ve got a good lunch waiting for us, and-’  


But the thought of lunch distracted her. Now she said it, she realised that she was  _ starving _ . She hadn’t managed to eat much breakfast, and her  nibbled edge of toast seemed a long, long time ago.  


‘Do you suppose it might be lunch time yet?’  


‘Well after lunch time I should think. Most of the others had theirs while you were asleep. I’d guess it’s about… two o’clock? Maybe later. Did you bring dinner with you?’  


‘Oh yes! Only, it’s in our case’.  


She craned her neck up to where the case was stored, too high for her to reach even if she stood on tiptoes.  


‘You could ask someone to lift it down for you, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. I’d get it myself, but I’m a bit trapped until your sister wakes up’.  


Patsy looked around at the great gangling boys and grown up girls, and remembered the children from the other carriage that had shouted after her when she looked at them. She might have decided to choose her own sort, but she didn’t think this was them.  


‘No. No, I don’t think I’d better disturb anyone, I’ll just wait until Grace wakes up. I’m not _so_ hungry’.  


Her stomach rumbled traitorously as she spoke, as if it had heard what she’d said and was protesting. It was so loud that she was sure Phyllis must have heard it too, although she was kind enough not to call Patsy a liar about not being hungry.  


‘Perhaps we’d better just wake her? I expect she’s slept enough now anyway, and I’m sure she must be hungry too’.  


Waking Grace from a nap was always risky, but having Phyllis with her made Patsy feel braver, and no doubt the food would mollify any potential tantrums.  


‘Well...Alright. Yes, lets’.  


She leaned over to give her sister a little shake.  


‘Grace? Grace, wake up, it’s time for lunch!’  


Grace batted at Patsy’s hands, wriggling further into Phyllis’ lap to try and stay asleep. When the shaking didn’t stop, she made a whining noise that didn’t have any actual words in it and opened her eyes blearily.  


‘Kitty?’  


The word was soft with sleep, and Grace’s fingers made little grasping motions, searching for something. When they found only empty air she startled fully awake, her eyes wide and mouth open in instant grief.  


‘ Where’s  _ KITTY?! _ ’  


This time it was so loud that it cut through the background chatter of the train carriage, and several of the children nearest to them turned to stare. Patsy heard a few titters and whispers behind her, and her face heated. Mama-in-her-head told her sternly that they were Making a Scene, and she needed to keep her sister under control or she’d shame them all.  


‘Shhhhh, Grace please shush. Kitty’s in our case, he’s fine! Don’t start crying. We’ll get Kitty for you!’  


‘Who’s Kitty?’  


‘Grace’s teddy. Please Phyllis, please could you lift our case down so that I can get him out? She’ll never stop otherwise’.  


Phyllis raised an eyebrow, as if she was surprised at the fuss Grace was making over a teddy (because of course she didn’t understand that in their family Grace was the Baby and Patsy was the Little Mama, so it was her job to make sure that her sister was never sad or frightened, and that she always got what she wanted and behaved nicely). But then she shrugged agreeably and shifted Grace gently sideways to sit on the seat beside Patsy while she got up to fetch their things.  


As soon as Phyllis handed her the case, Patsy grabbed Kitty out of it and passed him to her sister. Grace hugged him close at once, rubbing her cheek back and forth against his soft head, the way she did in bed at night so that she could fall asleep. She gave a little sigh of relief, as if she had almost lost something very precious, but it had been restored to her at the last moment. Her voice was back to it’s normal, soft tone as she murmured a loving ‘ _Kitty’_ into his fur.  


Despite the name, Kitty was not, in fact, a cat. He was a bear, with soft dark brown fur and a smart little green waistcoat. He was a very  _ nice  _ bear, but sometime around Grace’s third birthday she had decided she wanted him to be a cat instead. She had named him Kitty and made him mew and ‘drink’ from her glass of milk (much to Maud’s annoyance when it inevitably spilled everywhere) and told everyone he was her pet kitten.  


Occasionally, when Patsy was in a particularly good mood, she would make little triangle cat ears that could be tied over Kitty’s round bear ears with bits of thread, and a long tail to tie around his waist, and then he would be the kitten when they played Orlando and Grace (although when she was in a particularly _bad_ mood she would tell Grace to stop waving her _**bear**_ in her face and go away and play by herself for a bit or she’d pull his ears off. She only meant the pretend cat ears, not the bear ears underneath, but it was still a very effective threat).  


Grace mollified, Patsy retrieved the paper bag that contained their lunches, tucking the case behind her knees this time so that Phyllis wouldn’t have to get up again to put it away.  


Getting the lunches had been the main reason they had been so late arriving that morning. Mama had only remembered when the cab had already left them outside the station that the evacuated children were supposed to bring a meal with them. Their cook hadn’t made anything for them to take (that was what Mama said, but Patsy knew that that meant she had forgotten to ask her, because Mrs Durrant always, always made the things Mama asked her to), so they had had to hurry back along the road in search of a shop or cafe that might sell them a picnic.  


They found one just a few minutes walk away, but Mama had been unimpressed with everything on offer, sniffing haughtily at the sight of the sandwiches and pies and potato crisps.  


‘Don’t you have anything… better? I can’t feed my girls this rubbish’.  


It didn’t look like rubbish to Patsy, it all looked quite nice, but sometimes Mama could tell things were rubbish when she couldn’t at all, not even when she tasted them.

‘No ma’am, I’m afraid what you see here is what we have. You’ll have to walk up to the high street if you want anything fancier’.  


She sighed as if the man was being deliberately unhelpful, and peered again at the selection.  


‘Perhaps we _had_ better go up to the high street…’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Perhaps not. Well, needs must. I expect this will do. What would you like girls?’  


Grace had said ‘rice pudding’ right away, because that was her favourite nursery tea; and the man behind the counter chuckled at her, which made Mama frown.  


‘Don’t be silly Grace, you can’t take rice pudding on a train, can you? How would you carry it? You need to pick one of these things. A sandwich or a pie’.  


Grace had just repeated that she _only_ wanted rice pudding, shaking her head at each item the man tried offering her instead, and in the end Patsy had picked for both of them. She had chosen two steak pies, with golden crusts and hints of gravy showing through the little holes in the tops; two gingerbread men with current eyes and smiley mouths piped in icing; two apples (because it was important to eat fruit or vegetables, and fruit was nicer); a bottle of lemonade for them to share, and, because Mama had said they could pick whatever they wanted, two tubes of rolos, although her heart had pounded a little as she added them to the growing pile, afraid Mama would think she was being horribly greedy and say she couldn’t have any of it after all.  


Thankfully though Mama hadn’t seemed to notice what Patsy had chosen, handing over several coins to pay without even waiting to be told how much it cost, then ushering them back out onto the street almost before Patsy had managed to get the paper bag stowed safely away.  


They had had to nearly run back the rest of the way to the station (and of course, suffer the scolding from Sister Bernard once they got there), but now Patsy looked over the pies and the lemonade and the _rolos,_ she thought it had been worth it.  


She looked up from their feast and noticed that Phyllis was unwrapping a very squashed, crumpled looking newspaper parcel that she must have brought back from her own bag when she got up for the case. Patsy guessed that it contained her lunch, and felt guilty that the older girl hadn’t been able to eat anything yet because of them, and also a bit sorry that it looked like she didn’t have nearly such a good meal as they did.  


Inside the newspaper were two very squashed slices of bread, spread thickly with something that was too white and lumpy to be butter. The bread looked greyish where the news print had rubbed off, and it seemed a very poor sort of lunch for someone who had been on a train all day _and_ had looked after two little girls she didn’t even know.  


‘Let's all share our lunches out between us, then it will be like a picnic’.  


Phyllis gave her a smile that Patsy suspected meant she had seen through her attempt at tact, and shook her head.  


‘No lass. I’ll be alright with my bread and dripping, I can’t take your lunch off you’.  


‘Oh go on, there’s heaps more than we can eat and I’d really _like_ to share. Grace won’t mind, she can never finish hers anyway. Then later, if we all get hungry again, Grace and I can share your, ah… bread and dripping, as a snack’.  


Phyllis looked from her own grey slices of bread to the golden pies in Patsy’s hands, and relented. She wrapped her sandwiches back up and thrust them into a coat pocket, where Patsy rather hoped they would stay. She thought privately that they would have to get very hungry indeed before she fancied having _those_ as a snack, but she didn’t say so.  


It turned out to be rather fun, sharing the lunches. They didn’t have plates or knives and forks to eat with, and there was no table to not put their elbows on, or big glasses of too much milk to drink up nicely before they could go and play. They just ate with their fingers, and wiped them on their handkerchiefs when they got too greasy.  


The pies had presented a problem at first – when they tried to break them into equal portions they had only managed to scatter crumbs over their laps, the gravy oozing out over their fingers and down their wrists. It had stumped them briefly, but in the end they made it work by taking turns to have a bite from the whole, unbroken pie and then passing it on – Grace to Patsy, Patsy to Phyllis and back round until there was nothing left but a smear of gravy on Grace’s chin. The pies were delicious, rich and savoury and full of big pieces of steak and little slices of onion and carrot – much more satisfying than the thin cut bread and butter or milky puddings of the nursery.  


They shared the bottle of lemonade and one of the apples in the same way, passing them round the circle. The lemonade was a bit too tart, but it was good all the same, and Patsy got another thrill at the novelty of drinking straight from the glass bottle, just as she had on her very first train journey so long ago. She was tempted to bring out the gingerbread men next, but the pies had been more filling than she had expected and they were all too full now to really fancy them, so she put them back into the case with the other apple, and _one_ of the tubes of rolos.  


The other she kept, because she wouldn’t ever be too full to enjoy  _ those  _ properly, not when they were such a rare treat.  


They did get to have chocolate  _ sometimes  _ at home, but it was usually the kind that came in expensive boxes and often had strange fillings, or was very dark and bitter. They were the sort of chocolates you were only ever allowed one of, even if you accidentally picked one that was full of horrible sour cherry stuff, or marzipan, and had to spit it out secretly into your handkerchief when no one was looking. They almost never got the normal sort of chocolate you bought from ordinary sweet shops that was guaranteed to be sweet and delicious and filled with safe, ordinary caramel.  


She had expected to find it hard to share this part of the lunch three ways instead of two, but after all, Phyllis had shared her barley sugars with them before she’d even known they might have anything to offer in return. Rolos were _better_ than barley sugars of course, but it still felt like a fair swap. If it hadn’t been for Phyllis they might have had to spend the whole train ride dithering in the doorway, or trailing up and down the carriages being jeered at by the children and told off by the supervising grown ups for making a nuisance of themselves.  


So she shared out the rolos with scrupulous fairness, making sure all of them got an even portion. They had talked companionably while they ate the rest of the picnic (about Leeds, where Phyllis had lived before London, and Singapore, and, for Grace's benefit, cats again), but now they fell quiet, as if they needed all their attention to properly enjoy the chocolate. Patsy sucked each sweet slowly, trying to make it last as long as possible, and waited until the taste had completely gone from her mouth before reaching for another. She noticed that Phyllis ate hers this way as well, and guessed that she didn’t get chocolate very often at home either. It made her feel extra glad that they had all shared.  
  


Even after the rolos were finished, no one felt much like talking anymore, and they settled into a companionable quiet.  


Grace was playing her own private Kitty game, muttering softly to her bear and making him give occasional ‘mews’ in response, and Phyllis had picked up a very battered looking book from the seat beside her. She had to read it held awkwardly off to one side so she could see around Grace, but she didn’t complain. The book was _so_ shabby that the front cover had fallen right off, so Patsy couldn’t see what it was called, but Phyllis seemed to be completely absorbed by it so it must be a good story.  


She thought about getting her own book out so that she could read too, but in the end she just sat and stared out the window. The houses and factories of London had long since changed to rolling green hills and field after field of crops and cows, sheep and the occasional horse, and it was interesting to look at – so different from the cities she was used to.  


Every now and then the train would stop at little stations (all of which had their signs painted over so she couldn't see where they were), and there was a great fuss and confusion as teachers gathered together whichever school it was that was getting off here and made sure no one got left on the train that wasn’t supposed to. The first time it had happened she had jumped to her feet, reaching for Grace with one hand and the suitcase with the other, afraid they would be separated in a crowd of children surging for the doors. But only two classes were getting off there, and it hadn’t been anyone from St Agnes, or Phyllis’ school, so she had had to sit back down again, feeling a bit silly.  


After that, each time they stopped at a new station and a clipboard lady came in to call for pupils from such-and-such a school that wasn’t the one written on her label, she watched intently what was going on outside the window. She wanted to see whether there really were cars waiting to take them all to new homes like the ones Mama had described. There were  _ so many  _ children, surely there couldn’t be enough places like that for all of them.  


Or was it just for her and Grace, because they came from a Nice Family?  


That didn’t seem fair though. Phyllis might come from a poorer home than they did, but she deserved a nice place too, with a big bedroom and toys and a horse she could ride. Maybe she deserved it even more than they did, because she’d never got to have those sorts of things at all. Patsy resolved to ask whoever came to pick them up if they would please take Phyllis as well, because she had been so kind to them and deserved a good home.  


As the train slowly emptied, she began to feel a little bit anxious about that plan though. It was all very well her deciding it, but what if Phyllis’ school wasn’t going to the same place as hers? Or what if, as soon as they got off the train, she just walked away from them without a backward glance? Maybe she didn’t really want Patsy and Grace trailing round after her at all, and couldn’t wait to leave them behind…  


It was starting to get dark now, and it felt as if they’d been on the train for much more than just one day. A tiny, little-girlish part of Patsy was afraid that they might have to stay on the train forever, going on and on through countryside that never changed. The sensible grown up part of her knew that eventually they would reach the sea, and then they’d _have_ to stop because there weren’t any train tracks in the sea, but the other voice kept up an insistent little ‘yes, but what _if_ ’ at the back of her mind that kept her tensed on the edge of her seat, until at long, long last they stopped for a final time.  


Phyllis _didn’t_ take the opportunity to hurry away from them as they filed out of the train, though it would have been easy if she’d wanted to. Instead she waited while they gathered their things, and they walked out together. _This_ time when they got to the scary train door gap, Phyllis lifted Grace over without them even needing to ask, then turned and offered a hand to Patsy. Phyllis’ hand felt strong and steady as it gripped her own smaller one, and while she was holding it Patsy didn’t worry about falling onto the tracks, just stepped smartly across onto the platform without so much as a wobble.  


They had to separate then, to line up with their own schools and be counted, but even then Phyllis made sure that she and Grace had found the St Agnes’ line before leaving them to join the rest of her class. Patsy wondered if this was what it would be like to have a big sister herself, and wished for a moment that Phyllis really _was_ her sister, so it could be like this always.  


The counting part didn’t take very long, but even once it was finished they weren’t told to start moving. They just stood there, shuffling their feet and staring around at this small, empty station that was not a bit like London; while the grown ups talked in little huddles, just too far away to overhear what they were saying.  


At the other stations there had always been someone waiting on the platform to meet the children as they got off the train (not families with big cars though, these were people more like the clipboard ladies. Phyllis called them ‘Billeting Officers’), but Patsy couldn’t see anyone like that here. The only grown ups were the same teachers and volunteers who had been with them on the train. They looked worried too, and no one seemed to know what to do next.  


Eventually one of the teachers detached herself from the group and hurried out of the station, away up the road and out of sight. The little, frightened voice in Patsy’s head piped up again, louder than ever. What if all the other grown ups went off like that too, and they were just abandoned here? Maybe Mama had got it wrong, and the government was just organising the train part of the evacuation. Was Mama supposed to have arranged someone to come and pick them up? If so they would be stuck here forever, because she  _ hadn’t  _ asked anyone to come for them, Patsy knew she hadn’t; and they didn’t have any money or train tickets to go back home to London even if they could figure out which train to get on.  


Quite a few of the younger children were really, properly crying now. Some had older siblings or clipboard ladies trying to soothe them, but others were all on their own, calling for their mothers with no one to listen or care very much. Phyllis had left her line, and was kneeling beside a grubby little boy who was sobbing in the kind of quiet, despairing way that you do when you’re too frightened to properly howl, you just shiver and gulp and the tears keep coming and coming. Patsy felt a tiny bit jealous that her new friend had gone to the boy instead of coming to reassure her and Grace, but only with the bad, selfish part of her. The Little Mama part of her knew that he needed someone to look after him more than she did, because he was little and didn’t have anyone, and she was big, and she and Grace at least had each other.  


Grace had burrowed her face against Patsy’s shoulder, one hand clutching Kitty while the other held onto a fistful of her sister’s coat, as if holding on tight to the only familiar things around her might make the rest go away. She might have been crying too, but it was hard to tell because it wasn’t the wailing kind of crying, and her face was hidden so she couldn’t see any tears. Patsy put an arm around her just in case, pulling her even closer against her side.  


‘I don’t want to go on holiday anymore Patsy’.  


‘I know, I don’t either. But… but…’  


But what? She didn’t know what was going to happen next, and she was scared too. The words stuck in Patsy's throat. She had no comfort to offer.  


She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep, shaky breath to calm down, like Maud used to tell her to do when she woke up from a bad dream and thought there were monsters waiting for her under the bed, or when she accidentally broke something and was too frightened of being scolded to start cleaning it up, even though she knew she would be scolded much worse if she didn’t. She let the breath out, and gave Matilda a squeeze in her pocket to make her brave.  


‘ _ But _ , this is just a tiny, tiny part of our holiday. It’ll be over soon, and then the good part will start. Once it does I’m sure we’ll hardly even remember what this bit was like…’  


She _didn’t_ tell Grace that any minute a car would arrive to take them to a big house, just like Mama had promised. She didn’t mention horses, or boats, or kittens, or ice cream, even though any of those things might have helped her sister forget her current misery. Because what if they didn’t come true? Then it would be even worse than if she hadn’t said anything at all. So she just said ‘the good part’, and hoped as hard as she could that there would be one, even if it was only a _little bit_ good.  


Just as she was thinking that, a man came striding through the station entrance, accompanied by the teacher who had gone away earlier. For a moment she thought he might be the start of a good part, but if he was, he wasn’t a very _promising_ start. He was scowling at them all as if they had trooped uninvited into his best parlour with their muddy shoes still on, and eaten his supper right off his plate into the bargain.  


When he got close enough to be heard, he called out in a voice every bit as cross as his frown:  


‘Go back! Our evacuees arrived hours ago, there’s no room for any more here. You’ll have to get back on the train and go somewhere else’.  


But of course they couldn’t get back on the train. The train had gone, and they didn’t have anywhere else _to_ go.  


His announcement caused uproar among the group of the platform – several more children burst into tears, and a few shouted back at the man quite rudely. Some of the bossier clipboard ladies drew the man aside into their grown up huddle, while the rest stayed to try and calm things down.  


Patsy heard one of the teachers assuring her class of six year olds that they would all be on their way to lovely homes  _ very soon _ , and they just needed to wait a little bit longer, but it was hard to believe that was really true.  


After a lot more talking (arguing really) between the clipboard ladies and the angry man, they seemed to come to an agreement, and the evacuees were reformed into straggly lines and marched off at last, into the gathering darkness.  


She hadn’t really expected it anymore, but Patsy still felt a little pang when they got out onto the street and saw that there really, absolutely definitely wasn’t anyone waiting for them. She shrugged off the disappointment as well as she could, and followed the rest of the group.  


But Grace didn’t.  


Her sister stopped still at the edge of the pavement, staring around intently at the empty road.  


‘Come on Grace, we have to keep up, we’ll get told off’.  


‘ No, there’s going to be a car. Mama  _ said _ ’ .  


It seemed that Grace had been listening more closely to their mother’s stories than she had thought.  


Patsy bit her lip.  


‘I know, but… but I think Mama might have been wrong about that’.  


Grace stamped her foot then, scowling up at her sister as if she hadn’t been hanging onto her sleeve for dear life just minutes earlier.  


‘ No,  _ you’re  _ wrong. Mama’s a grown up and you’re just a little girl, so you don’t know. I want to wait for the  _ car _ ’ .  


‘ Gracie,  _ please-’  
_

Grace shook her head hard, plunking herself right down on the pavement without seeming to care that it was cold and dirty under her bare legs.  


‘ I want to  _ WAIT _ !’  


Patsy took hold of Grace’s hand and tried to pull her to her feet, but her sister fought back, wailing and struggling against her, and she didn’t know what to  _ do _ .  


‘Oh _GRACE_ , you’re being so bad! You have to come _now. Please_ ’.  


The main group was a way ahead of them now, but a few stragglers had lingered to watch the unfolding scene. They would all know that Patsy was a bad big sister who couldn’t make Grace behave, and they might even suppose that they were the Wrong Sort, because nice young ladies didn’t have tantrums, especially not in the street.  


In desperation, Patsy did the only thing left that she could think of, although she knew it was absolutely against the rules. She snatched Kitty out of Grace’s arms, and held him high over her head.  


‘Kitty! You give him _back_!’  


‘ I won’t. Kitty’s going to come nicely with me and the others, and if you don’t want to then you can just stay here  _ all by yourself’.  
_

Grace was on her feet at once, jumping to try and grab the bear from Patsy’s hand, but she was too small to have a hope of reaching him.  


‘Are you going to come now?’  


‘No’.  


‘Fine then, suit yourself’.  


Patsy began to walk away, keeping Kitty  clutched tightly to her chest . She walked very slowly, but she didn’t look back, knowing that it would only be seconds before her sister gave in.  


Sure enough, she had barely gone three steps when Grace appeared at her side, still crying hard, but not threatening to stay behind anymore. She released the breath she had been holding, and was about to give Grace a conciliatory hug and return Kitty to her arms when a sharp, grown up voice shattered the moment.  


‘Young lady, what on earth was that _appalling_ behaviour I just witnessed?’  


The clipboard lady had reached them, and Patsy’s vain hope that she might not have seen Grace’s tantrum was shattered.  


‘I’m sorry, my sister just got a bit upset-’  


‘Well I daresay she did! Snatching the little girl’s teddy bear like that! And you, a great big girl twice her age! You should be utterly ashamed of yourself. You give that bear to me right now’.  


‘Oh no, but you don’t understand, I was just-’  


‘This _instant_ child, or I shall be forced to write most strongly to your mother. I might expect such behaviour from a slum child, but I am quite certain that greater pains have been taken over _your_ upbringing’.  


The lady snatched Kitty from Patsy’s hand and then turned to Grace, her cross frown melting into a look of gentle understanding.  


‘You poor little pet. Here you go darling, here’s Mr Teddy all safe for you. You come along with me now dearie, that’s it’.  


She picked Grace right up and held her on her hip, only breaking off her soothing murmur to snap sharply at Patsy:  


‘Well, get moving girl. Don’t make any more of a spectacle of yourself than you already have. I’m warning you now, I don’t want to hear another peep of trouble out of you or there will be severe consequences. Not one more word’.  


And then she walked away from her, sweeping the remaining stragglers back towards the main group of evacuees. Patsy had no choice but to run along behind her, struggling to keep up with her longer strides.  


The clipboard lady didn’t  _ understand _ . She had only been trying to get Grace to come along so they wouldn’t be left behind, she had been trying to  _ help _ …  But all the children that had hung back to watch had heard her being told off. They would all think she was a bad, wicked girl who would steal her little sister’s teddy for no reason. Maybe it really had been an awful thing to do, even though she had been trying to be good. Phyllis might think so too when she heard what had happened, and then she wouldn’t want to be friends anymore or get evacuated to the same place.  


She cried a little bit then, even though it was shaming to cry when you were eight and in public. It was alright though, she was all by herself at the back so no one could see. By the time they were all herded into a big, empty hall, she had managed to stop the tears spilling out, though she still felt the crying inside her head.  


Grace was already there when she got inside, back on Phyllis’ lap, sitting at the edge of the hall. She was sucking on her fingers again, looking round and round at the milling children, and when she caught sight of Patsy she jumped up.  


‘Patsy! We’re here Patsy!’  


Dear Grace. She never held a grudge after the first emotion had passed. Patsy ran over and gave her a big hug.  


‘I’m sorry I took Kitty. Really sorry’.  


‘ He’s  _ mine _ ’ .  


‘I know he is Gracie, I wasn’t going to _keep_ him, I was just so scared we’d be left behind all on our own’.  


‘But of course we weren’t, silly!’  


It was that simple for Grace, and she seemed to feel better now they were all back together, as if the part between getting off the train and arriving at the hall had never happened.  


Patsy was less sure about Phyllis, and said hello in a very small, cautious voice, in case she told her to go away. But either Phyllis didn’t know what had happened outside the station, or she didn’t mind, because she offered her usual smile and said ‘hello lass. Come and sit down’.  


She did so, even though Mama didn’t like them to sit on the floor in case they got their dresses dusty. But there wasn’t anywhere else  _ to  _ sit, so maybe it wouldn’t matter, just this once.  


After a while some of the volunteers brought buns and little bottles of milk for them all, which, it seemed, was to be their supper. Patsy and Grace still had an apple and the gingerbread and one of their precious tubes of rolos left too (and Phyllis had the bread and dripping of course), but actually, none of them were feeling very hungry now. They still didn’t know what was going to happen to them, and Patsy at least was feeling too tired and worried to fancy much of anything. From the way Grace picked listlessly at the raisins in her bun, it seemed she felt the same.  


Patsy tried to read Orlando the Marmalade Cat out loud after they’d eaten, but there wasn’t enough light to see the words properly, and her voice kept going wobbly anyway. After a few pages she gave up and they looked at the pictures together instead, imagining what it would be like to have a camping holiday of their own.  


As it turned out, they sort of _were_ having a camping holiday. Not a fun one with music and swimming and sleeping under the stars, but one with no proper beds or cooked supper, and being out in the open all night long (well, sort of. They weren’t outside, but the hall certainly felt very big and open compared to her room at home). They were actually going to have to _sleep_ here.  


The milk-and-bun ladies had come back again, this time carrying blankets and cushions, which they were busy distributing among the evacuees. Apparently the bedding had been collected from the surrounding houses (the milk-and-bun ladies going door to door asking for anything that might be spared for the night), but there wasn’t enough to go round, and the blankets were given first to children who didn’t have coats to keep warm. Patsy and Grace had coats, so they didn’t get a blanket. They did get a cushion each, but they were hard little rectangles, like the kind they knelt on in church rather than the big squashy pillows they had at home, and Patsy wondered if she’d be able to sleep at all on it.  


They were expected to settle straight down once the bedding had been given out, but it was difficult to feel bed time-ish when there was no bed to get into, and so much noise and bustle around them. Even putting on her pyjamas felt strange and wrong here, like getting changed in the middle of a school assembly. A lot of other children didn’t bother to change at all, just lay down in what they were wearing; but Patsy knew that if she tried to do that then Mama-in-her-head would be telling her off all night long, fussing over the skirt crumpling, or the fabric getting snagged on a rough bit of floor. So she changed as quickly as she could, and prodded Grace into her night things as well, though she was so nearly asleep by this point that it was almost like dressing a doll.  


She got a bit stuck after that. They hadn’t cleaned their teeth or washed their hands and faces like they normally did, but the only sinks were in the WC, and there were just two of them for all the children to share. They had paid a visit after the milk and buns, and you had to wait for absolutely ages for a turn, standing in a line in the chilly corridor while people shoved each other and made silly pretend toilet noises all around you. Patsy didn’t feel much like rousing Grace and queuing up again when they didn’t even need to use the WC. She decided that they would just have to let their teeth not get brushed tonight, and hoped Maud had been joking when she told them they’d all fall out if they did that.  


Instead, Phyllis and Patsy did their best to make a bed for them all, spreading out her and Grace’s coats to lie on and arranging the cushions at one end. There didn’t seem much else to do now apart from try and go to sleep, so they all squashed up close on their makeshift mattress, Phyllis’ coat spread over them in an approximation of a blanket. Phyllis was 14 and tall, but her coat wasn’t anything like big enough to cover them all properly, and quite a lot of them stuck out around the edges, at the mercy of every passing draft.  


For a while they lay still, but Patsy couldn’t sleep. The firm little cushion felt like a brick under her head, and the floor was unbearably hard and cold even through their coats. She wanted to toss and turn, but if she moved then Phyllis' coat would slip right off her and even the small warmth it offered would be lost.  She lay stiffly and shivered, counting all the places that hurt as if she was counting sheep, but it didn’t help her doze off. She felt sure she must be the only person left awake in the whole hall,  until Phyllis reached across Grace’s sleeping form to give her shoulder a gentle squeeze.  


‘Don’t worry kid, this is only for tonight. We’ll go somewhere else tomorrow and get proper billets’.  


‘How do you know?’  


Phyllis’ words were comforting, but she wondered if they were just another story, like Mama telling them about the lovely house they would be staying in when she hadn’t known that at all. Phyllis was a very different sort of person to Mama, but she still had to check.  


‘I asked my teacher, Mrs Barton. She told me that’s what they’d agreed with the Billeting Officer – that man from the station. We’ll stay here tonight, and in the morning we’ll go on to another town with more space’.  


‘Oh. That’s good’.  


They didn’t speak anymore, but Patsy wondered if Phyllis was still lying awake too, staring up at the dark ceiling and listening to all the unfamiliar night time sounds of so many children around them.  


It was a long, long time before she slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mei Ling is the result of several fairly unsuccessful hours spent trying to get to grips with how to give an appropriate romanized Cantonese name to someone while having no actual knowledge of the language myself. From what I was able to find it seemed to be a reasonable choice, but if you actually speak Cantonese and disagree with this, I am open to alternative name suggestions.


	6. Delia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else need some fluff? I think we need some fluff.

Nain was as good as her word, and sat Delia down at the kitchen table with a pencil and paper to get started on her letters right away. She even let her have the biscuit she hadn’t got to have earlier, set out on a little plate with a painting of a lady in a garden picking flowers on it (there was a small crack across the china surface from where Delia had dropped it when she was five, but it didn’t spoil the picture and it was still her favourite).  
  


Delia’s appetite was well and truly back now, and the biscuit was every bit as good as she’d hoped it would be. It was deliciously sweet and spicy – crunchy on the outside but a little bit soft in the middle, the ginger making her mouth feel pleasantly warm even though it had long since cooled out of the oven. She alternated between nibbling the biscuit and nibbling thoughtfully on the end of her pencil as she tried to decide what to write to Dad. Nain had said they could write lots of letters to keep him _cheerful_ , so she didn’t want to put in anything about being sad or getting cross with Mam, in case that made him feel bad too… but it turned out to be quite difficult _not_ to. After all, how could she write a letter telling Dad her news without mentioning the war, or being homesick, or falling out with Mam? That _was_ her news.  
  


She could _maybe_ have mentioned the bit about polio from that morning – he might think it was funny like Mam had and that would be good for Cheering Him Up. But she didn’t really want to get laughed at again, even if she wouldn’t know about it. Maybe _especially_ then, because thinking about someone laughing behind her back felt meaner than them doing it in front of her. Besides, it wasn’t really very funny. It was actually a bit sad and scary when she thought about it, because it showed just how strange today had been that it would make her worry about dying.

  
Instead she wrote as if what Mam had told her that morning was true – she was staying with Nain for an extra special surprise holiday. She tried to make the words sound bouncy and excited without so much as a hint of homesickness in them as she explained that she would be staying here for the new school term because Mam was going to do her bit -”just like you Dad! Only Mam isn’t going to be a soldier and cut all her hair off and shoot a gun. She’s going to do Women’s War Work, and they let you keep your hair for that”.  
  


She _did_ tell him about coming here on the bus, but not about the jelly baby incident – in case he still remembered once they were all back home and stopped slipping her the occasional quarter of pear drops or lemon sherbets when they went out to buy his tobacco.  
  


She wrote about looking out the window and seeing the geese flying by though, and how she’d imagined it was Dad and the other soldiers learning to fly their bomber planes (she _hadn’t_ imagined that, but she would have done if she’d thought of it, and he’d never _know_ she hadn’t).  
  


It was very, very tempting to tell the story of little girl Mam and the sherry next, but once she got as far as writing ‘Nain told me that’ she changed her mind. It was a sort of secret after all (Nain had very nearly not even told _Delia_ ), and she was a bit worried Dad might be shocked if he found out. That didn’t feel fair to Mam, because it was a long time ago and she’d never steal sherry _now_. So she changed it to ‘Nain told me that I could write you lots of letters, so I’m going to. Lots and LOTS. I could draw you pictures too’-  
  


That was a good idea actually. And Mam had packed her colouring pencils! They had been a present from Dad last Christmas, so it would make him even happier to see that she was using them for his letters.  
  


She drew Nain’s cottage, with the garden gnomes and yellow door, and added big roses blooming all around it. There really _were_ roses near the door, but in the real garden the flowers had almost all gone for the year, and there were just green leaves and bare stems there now. It made the picture look more cheerful to draw them in though, even if Nain didn’t _really_ have blue and purple and orange ones (just ordinary pink). Still, maybe _next_ summer they’d bloom in a whole rainbow of different colours to match her picture – you never knew.  
  


Even with the bright splodges round the door, the picture still seemed a bit bare when she’d finished, so Delia added a drawing of herself standing in the garden with a big smile on her face. She gave herself a new party dress and new blue ribbons for her bunches, because the plain gingham she had on now was a bit boring, and then drew a plane flying by in the sky with a teeny tiny Dad looking out of it and waving down to her. Delia made her picture self wave back, and experimented with a little row of x’s going up from her to the plane, to show she was blowing him kisses. When she sat back to survey the effect however, she worried that Dad might think they were meant to be bombs falling down rather than kisses floating up, and that quite ruined the effect of the whole picture. What if he thought she had drawn herself getting _bombed_?  
  


She thought she might have to start all over again and waste the piece of paper (and even Nain might be a little bit annoyed at her then, because she’d let her use her best, expensive writing paper), but then she had the idea to add a note with an arrow. She labelled the plane ‘Dad’, and the x’s ‘blowing kisses’, and the girl in the garden ‘Delia’, just to be sure he would understand.  
  


Her hand was beginning to ache a little and she still needed to write Mam’s letter, so she finished off by writing ‘lots of love from Delia’ and lots more x’s under the picture, then put it carefully to one side.  
  


The letter to Mam was easier, and ended up being even longer than Dad’s as she told all about finding the surprises in the case and said sorry for being so cross. While she was being sorry anyway, she added an extra apology for singing the laughing policeman even though Mam didn’t like it, and for getting jellybaby goo on her neck, even though it _was_ an accident. She assured Mam that she was quite alright now, and wished her luck with her women’s war work, then ended with another big ‘Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all the surprises!’ She signed that one ‘Lots of love from Delia AND Biscuit’ and then added ‘p.s – Biscuit says thank you very much for wrapping him in my pyjamas and wants you to know that he wasn’t frightened in the case even a little bit’.  
  


Nain came over to see how she was getting on then, and smiled down at the filled sheets.  
  


‘My, you have been busy! Are you finished?’  
  


Delia had been considering drawing a picture of Biscuit dozing in his pyjama nest at the bottom of Mam’s letter, but there wasn’t very much room left on the page, and her hand really _was_ hurting now. There was a big red groove on one finger from where she’d gripped the pencil, and the rest of them felt like they had forgotten how to straighten out properly.  
  


She decided she was finished.  
  


Nain provided two crisp new envelopes for the letters to go into, and let Delia seal them and stick on the stamps herself, then wrote the addresses for her. She wrote them very carefully and clearly with her smart ink pen, to make absolutely sure they wouldn’t go to the wrong place and be lost. It was quite exciting to see them once they were finished, looking so neat and official, like real, proper post, and to know that it was _her_ letters inside. She’d written letters before of course, but usually it was just adding a bit onto the end of a family letter, or making a card to give to someone in person. Nothing she had to say had ever been deemed important enough to spend the money on an envelope and a stamp just for her, and it felt very grown up to write your very own letter and have a postman deliver it for you.  
  


‘Can we go and post them right this minute? Please Nain?’  
  


‘Oh, why not, it would be nice to stretch my legs a little’.  
  


Mam would have taken the letters from her before they even got outside (‘let me look after those, you’ll only drop them in a puddle or put them down somewhere and forget them!’), but Nain let Delia carry them for herself. She would usually have skipped along at Nain’s side, or played ‘not stepping on the cracks’, or tried to see how far she could hop without letting her other foot touch the ground (taking advantage of Nain’s milder views on children ‘jumping about’ when Mam wasn’t there to tell her off), but today she walked demurely by Nain’s side all the way to the post box, clutching her letters very carefully, as if they were fragile little baby chicks. She was determined not to smudge or crumple the envelopes even the tiniest bit, so they would still be absolutely pristine when they arrived with Mam and Dad and they’d be proud of her.  
  


The post box was the big, red pillar kind – taller than the one she was used to at home. The slot for letters was far enough above her head that Delia had to reach right up to drop her envelopes inside, but she was glad that Nain didn’t try to do it for her. She listened to the soft, papery sound of her letters hitting the waiting pile inside and gave a sigh of satisfaction.  
  


‘Will they arrive by tomorrow do you think?’  
  


‘Probably not _quite_ so soon. Some time next week I expect’.  
  


‘Next _week_ ?’  
  


‘Well, it’s Saturday tomorrow and there isn’t any post on Sundays. They _might_ arrive on Monday, but I imagine things will take a little longer to sort out than usual, so it’s best not to get our hopes up too high. The postman will probably be very busy at the moment carrying letters for all the soldiers’.  
  


‘I suppose’.  
  


Nain must have seen how disappointed she was at the idea of the letters not arriving, maybe for a whole week, because she put an arm around her and gave her a reassuring squeeze.  
  


‘I was just thinking, it’s such a lovely, sunny afternoon. What would you say to us going on an adventure, rather than walking straight home?’  
  


Delia perked up a little at that.  
  


‘An adventure? How do we do that?’  
  


‘What? Haven’t I ever taken you on an adventure before?’  
  


‘No, never!’  
  


‘Well, you must still have been too little the last time you were here. Only brave, grown up girls can go on adventures, because once they start, _anything_ could happen. Would you like to try one?’  
  


‘Oh yes, yes _please_ !’  
  


She gave a little jump of excitement, the letters almost entirely forgotten.  
  


‘Alright, here’s what you have to do. Close your eyes – no peeking, or the magic won’t work’- Delia obeyed, scrunching her eyes as tight as she could to show she wasn’t cheating ‘- now point your finger out in front of you, and spin round until you’re _almost_ dizzy, and then stop. Whichever way you’re pointing, that’s the way we’ll go’.  
  


Sometimes when they went to the park she played spinning around until she was so dizzy she fell over, but always with her eyes wide open, watching the world blur into nothing but streams of colour swaying crazily around her as she went faster and faster. Spinning with her eyes shut felt different. After a few turns she had completely lost track of which way she was facing, or where Nain was, or even if her feet were really still on the pavement. She might have been spinning off through the air, or drilling right down into the ground, so she’d open her eyes and find she was in a whole different country. She spun until she staggered, very nearly falling right down onto the hard road, but Nain caught her before she could step off the curb.  
  


She opened her eyes.  
  


She had managed to keep her finger pointing out ahead of her even as she stumbled, but when her vision stopped spinning enough for her to follow its direction, she realised that she was pointing straight at a brick wall.  
  


‘Oh _no’.  
  
_

Her very first attempt at an adventure, and it was already going wrong. They couldn’t go that way, not unless they were going to turn into ghosts and slip through the bricks. Did that mean she wasn’t grown up enough for an adventure after all? Or not brave enough? Maybe Nain would say they’d better just go home. Her lip wobbled a little as she stared at the dead end.  
  


‘Not to worry cariad – look, your clever hand has chosen the perfect way to start an adventure!’  
  


Following Nain’s gaze, Delia realised there was a narrow alley set between the wall she was pointing at and the next building in the row, just a few paces to the left of where she had been looking.  
  


‘A secret path!’  
  


It looked like any other ordinary little alley, just a shortcut between one road and another, but it wasn’t. It had appeared from nowhere, opening up at the command of Delia’s pointing finger – she was half sure that it really had. Was it here last time she visited Nain? She couldn’t remember.  
  


They set off down the shaded pathway, high walls to either side cutting out most of the sun. It felt cooler in here than the main street, and quieter too, as if they were stepping right out of the ordinary world, and might come out at the other end somewhere quite different. It was just a game of course, but Delia slipped her hand into Nain’s all the same.  
  


Just in case.  
  


Halfway along the alley, in the spot where a tree hanging over the wall from someone’s garden made the shadows thicker than ever, Nain stopped her and pointed up.  
  


‘Did I ever tell you about that tree, cariad?’  
  


‘No...’  
  


‘It’s a fairy tree. No one knows how old it is, but some say it was planted by Tylwyth Teg many, many hundreds of years ago, as a gift to the people of this land’.  
  


The tree’s branches arched right over their narrow pathway, thick clusters of red berries hanging heavily amidst the fluttering sprays of green. It looked very pretty with the sun filtering down through its leaves – the berries seemed gilded with a layer of gold, standing out in bright contrast to the weak, dappled light that was all that made it down to the alley they were standing in. It wasn’t too difficult to imagine it being a bit magical.  
  


‘Why did they give them a gift?’  
  


‘Because once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in these parts who did the Tylwyth Teg a great favour. She rescued the baby princess, the daughter of the fairy queen herself. The baby tumbled from where she had been napping in the soft petals of a rose one day – fairy babies can be very tiny you know – she fell down among the thorns, and was snatched up by a passing family of shrews.  
  


Of course as soon as they knew she was lost, every fairy in all of Cymru joined in to search for her – the Coblynau of the mines, the Gwragedd Annwn of the rivers and the Gwyllion down from the mountains. Every Ellyll and Bwbachod, no matter how small or humble, left their hearths to help search for the missing baby. But shrews are cunning creatures, and they coveted the pretty fairy child. They wanted her power for themselves as she grew, so they hid her away where even fairy magic couldn’t find her. They made a crib for her in a little iron snuff box inside a ring of salt’.  
  


Delia nodded. Iron and salt were always used to ward against fairies in stories.  
  


‘How did the little girl rescue her?’  
  


‘Well, this little girl was very clever and creative. She was a bit like you actually, because she liked to build fairy houses in the woods too, imagining that mice or bugs or _maybe_ even fairies might find them and move in once she’d gone home. This particular day, she made the most beautiful house yet. It had silver birch bark walls, and a thatched roof of golden hay. She made the softest rose petal curtains and a carpet of brilliant green moss, and then set out a fairy meal of berries on the little stone table inside, with acorn cups of fresh stream water and little bits of twig for cutlery. She even made a garden for the house, with a leaf hammock hanging from two sticks and flower beds of forget-me-nots and daisies. It was such a wonderful house that the shrew family forgot all about the baby and rushed out to explore it even before she’d left the clearing.  
  


The little girl saw where they’d come from, and heard a tiny, tiny cry, so she peered into their grassy nest to investigate and saw the baby, all alone in her uncomfortable metal cradle. The girl knew she was a fairy at once of course, and that she couldn’t possibly be happy surrounded by all that salt and iron, so she picked her up very carefully and carried her home. She made the baby a new bed in the soft silky inside of a newly shed conker case, tucking her in carefully with petals so she wouldn’t touch the spiky outside, and put it just inside her open window, with a saucer of milk left out on the sill to attract the fairies. As soon as she was asleep, the fairies came fluttering down in their dozens and found the lost princess’.  
  


‘Didn’t they think the little girl had stolen her?’  
  


‘No, fairies are very clever, and now the baby wasn’t stuck in all that iron, they could see exactly what had happened just by looking at her. They understood that the little girl had rescued her and was trying to give her back, so they decided that she and all her people would be given protection from any fairy tricks or spells in the future. They planted a rowan berry in the girls garden, and when she woke up in the morning there was the tree, looking just as it does now. Even today, the tree will still protect you from all sorts of magic. All you have to do is break off a twig and carry it in your pocket when you go adventuring, and you’ll be perfectly safe from any otherworldly power’.  
  


Delia looked up at the tree, considering the story. She didn’t exactly believe in fairies anymore, but they _were_ in an almost-probably magic alley that had appeared just when they needed it, on an adventure that was only safe to go on once you were almost eight and grown up...  
  


‘It’s not _really_ magic though... Is it?’  
  


Nain smiled down at her.  
  


‘Well. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just an ordinary sort of garden tree that someone planted because they thought it looked pretty. But on an adventure, I always think it’s more fun to believe the magic version. Don’t you?’  
  


It _did_ make the adventure more exciting to decide to believe the magical story about the tree instead of the normal one.  
  


‘Let's both take a twig now then, to keep us safe on _our_ adventure’.  
  


Nain agreed, lifting Delia up so she could choose her own twig, and then pocketing one herself with equal solemnity, as if she didn’t think it was silly at all.  
  


They continued down the alley and on through the streets on the other side, stopping every now and then for Delia to twirl them a new direction to follow, or to examine some item or other along the way and tell each other the ‘real’ story behind the apparently mundane object. Sometimes Nain told the story, and sometimes Delia told one to her instead, but no two were the same. A few involved fairies, like the first one, but most were about other things – pirates or wild wolves or infamous criminals, clever children or wise old ladies.  
  


Delia told a story of smugglers in the sewers so vivid that they both stood for a minute, peering down into the dark of a drain as if they might catch a gleam from the golden teeth that she had furnished them with, or hear their smugglers songs echoing up from the depths. Nain told one about a star falling to make a crater in the village that had then been filled with water and become the duck pond, and that all the ducks were descended from the tiny creatures that had lived on the star. That meant that they were actually alien ducks from another planet, and Nain said you could tell because they quacked backwards (Delia listened hard to the quacking for a while, and could almost swear that they really _did_ sound different from normal ducks).  
  


They ended up leaving the village altogether, heading out into fields and then woodlands, where there were even more things to tell stories about. They found a tree so gnarled and twisted that it was almost hard to believe it _wasn’t_ magical, and then what looked like stepping stones sticking up all across a dry clearing. Delia insisted they should hop across the stones, because if they set foot on the apparently ordinary earth around them then it would instantly turn into mud and they’d be sucked down to their doom. Delia _did_ fall off at one point, where the stones were furthest apart, and Nain had to rescue her from the very jaws of death, pulling her slowly up, inch by inch from the hungry mud.  
  


After that they had to stop by a stream for a rest.  
  


Nain sat down on the log of a fallen tree to get her breath back while Delia peeled off her shoes and socks and waded into the water to wash off the clinging mud (they had pretended mud right up to her neck in the clearing, but in reality she only paddled in the stream, keeping the hem of her dress well above the ankle-deep water). The cool water felt wonderful splashing over her hot feet, soothing away the aches of the long walk, and when she stood very still weeny fish swam over to investigate her toes. She wondered if she might be able to catch some and keep them in a jar.  
  


Were they naturally small, or might these just be babies? Perhaps they’d grow into proper big goldfish one day, like the ones in bags at the fair, and then they could be like real pets... She stooped down to try and catch one of them in her cupped hands, but as she did so her foot moved just a tiny bit, and the little creatures darted away from her, disappearing almost at once into the current. Delia looked ahead at where the water burbled and foamed over some stones, trying to catch a glimpse of her erstwhile pets again, but they were gone.  
  


Nain followed the direction of her gaze, looking on to where the stream disappeared from view among the trees.  
  


‘You know cariad, this little stream goes on all the way through the wood, and eventually it’ll join up with the big river, then flow right out into the sea’.  
  


‘Is that another story?’  
  


‘Not really... but I bet it could be the start of a really good one if we wanted it to be’.  
  


Delia nodded, considering.  
  


She was starting to feel hungry – the meat paste sandwiches seemed like a long time ago... but they were on an adventure, and they had a whole new genre of stories to tell now. She thought about sharks and shipwrecks, mermaids and water babies, and couldn’t bear to spoil their outing with anything as mundane as tea time.  
  


Ignoring the faint rumbling of her stomach, she launched straight into a long, exciting tale of a storm at sea so big that the wave had washed all the way up this stream, carrying a fishing boat with it to get smashed to pieces in the forest. The woods grew in her story from a little patch of trees barely a mile across, to a true wilderness of forest – trees stretching a hundred miles in every direction. She populated it with monkeys and tigers and bears, so the sailors had to avoid getting eaten and keep the items they’d salvaged close to stop them being stolen by curious monkeys every minute.  
  


She could have kept the story up for hours, creating more and more new challenges for the sailors to face as they tried to survive and find a way out of the endless forest, but eventually Nain must have heard the increasingly loud rumbles of her stomach, because she gave a little start and looked at her watch, then jumped right up off her log.  
  


‘Oh cariad! You must be half starved, I had no idea how late it was getting. We’d better hurry home at once and get you your tea. I’m _so_ sorry babi’.  
  


Nain looked horribly guilty as she helped Delia wriggle her still damp feet back into socks and shoes and reached for her hand to hurry them out of the woods.  
  


‘It’s alright Nain, I don’t mind a bit. I _am_ hungry, but I didn’t want to stop our adventure’.  
  


‘I still should have thought – I haven’t even started cooking, it’ll be an age before we can sit down to eat. I suppose we could just have bread and boiled eggs, but I’d really rather you had a proper hot meal…’  
  


Nain kept looking worried all the way back into town, even though Delia insisted that she didn’t mind a bit about the late tea. Her stomach kept rumbling though, and when she smelled the hot, salty savoury smell as they passed the fish and chip shop, it growled so fiercely that Delia clamped a hand over it, trying unsuccessfully to muffle the sound.  
  


Nain stopped walking.  
  


‘You poor little mite, you really are starving aren’t you? Well, never mind. That rumbly tummy of yours has given me an excellent idea. Lets get fish and chips!’  
  


‘Oh _yes!_ ’  
  


Delia clapped her hands and gave a little skip. They hardly _ever_ got to have fish and chips at home – only very, very occasionally as an extra special treat, because Mam believed in home cooked meals. Nain did too (unfortunately), but she was clearly worried enough about the late tea to make an exception.  
  


A few minutes later they emerged from the shop, both clutching hot, greasy parcels. Delia wanted to perch on the little low wall outside the shop and eat them right then and there, but Nain said that was pushing their luck a bit and they’d better take them home rather than eat in the street. She didn’t seem to notice though (or maybe just didn’t comment) when Delia poked a small hole in her newspaper parcel and snuck chips out of it as they walked. They were so hot they burned her fingers and tongue a little, but she didn’t care. They were crispy, salty, vinegar-drenched bites of pure bliss, and she wouldn’t care if they burned her fingers right off, just as long as she could keep eating them.  
  


When they got home at last, Nain didn’t insist they go inside and eat the fish and chips properly off plates at the kitchen table; she suggested a picnic in the garden instead.  
  


‘It seems like the only proper way to end an adventure after all’.  
  


So they sat side by side on an old blanket in the last of the late evening sunshine, eating bites of hot, crispy fish and golden chips with their fingers right from the paper. It tasted so much better than eating it off plates would have, somehow. It made it feel more like proper holiday food – as if they were eating on the beach after a glorious day of building sandcastles and swimming in the sea. Delia sighed contentedly, taking another big bite of fish.  
  


‘Look over there, there’s a gnome running off with one of your chips!’  
  


Delia turned her head to look, baffled just for a second, and as she did so Nain reached into her paper parcel and swiped a chip, dropping it quickly into her mouth before Delia had time to react.  
  


‘Hey!’  
  


Nain laughed ‘I’m sorry cariad, they just taste so much better when you steal one from someone you love’.  
  


Delia gave her a pretend-cross frown, and snatched a chip quickly from Nain’s own packet in revenge.  
  


‘Mmm... it _does_ taste better. Would you like another one of mine?’  
  


‘That’s very kind of you my love, but just one was plenty. You eat up the rest now, and then I want you to be a helpful girl and wash up all the dishes. You can manage that on your own can’t you?’  
  


She frowned a little ‘wash the-’  
  


Nain was watching her, her eyebrows raised and a little smile on her face. Delia looked down at the paper parcels on their laps, and got the joke. She laughed and agreed happily ‘alright Nain, I’ll give them an extra hard scrub’.  
  


They finished off the last few chips, and then Delia gathered their greasy papers while Nain shook the bits of grass from the blanket and folded it carefully away.  
  


‘I think it’s getting on for bed time now, you’ve had a busy day, and it’s getting late. Do you think you’ll feel sick if you lie down with such a full tummy?’  
  


She could have said yes and delayed having to go to bed – Nain might have played a board game with her, or helped her sew a little outfit for Biscuit, but she shook her head. She _was_ feeling a bit sleepy, and they’d have all of tomorrow to do those things, and the next day, and all the next days on and on for ages. She didn’t need to cram all the good things into the first night.  
  


She changed into her pyjamas without a word of complaint, brushed her teeth and washed her face very thoroughly to get rid of the chip grease, and then climbed into bed. She hadn’t forgotten about the war, or Mam and Dad being away and how strange everything was, but it felt very far away now, snuggled up safe in Nain’s cosy attic with Biscuit tucked up beside her under the covers.  
  


She thought Nain might be sick of telling stories after their adventure earlier, but she settled down on the bed as usual and asked what book they should have.  
  


‘Well… I did start that Emily book earlier, we could read that…’  
  


But she said it a little doubtfully, remembering how it had made her worry about Mam. Nain must have remembered too, because she shook her head.  
  


‘No, lets have something different tonight. How about…’  
  


She peered at the books on Delia’s little book case.  
  


‘How about this one?’  
  


It was ‘The Enchanted Wood’. Delia thought about Silky the Fairy and Moon Face, and the funny adventures the children had up the Faraway tree. It felt like a good, safe sort of choice.  
  


‘Yes please’.  
  


The land at the top of the tree tonight was ‘The Land of Take-What-You-Want’. It sounded wonderful, all sorts of magical things free to take whenever you liked, and she badly wanted to find out what they would all choose. But Delia found that she couldn’t keep her eyes open, and long before Nain made it to the end of the chapter she had fallen asleep; pet giraffes, walking clocks and magic aeroplanes slipping seamlessly from story to dream as she drifted off.


	7. Patsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it turns out that in practical terms, not much actually happens in this chapter. If you're all getting bored of the pace I'm setting with this story, I honestly can't blame you, I am being very self indulgent with it and allowing a lot of slow build. Probably not going to stop doing that though so... hope you all enjoy reading about the lives of 1939 7/8 year olds, I guess?  
> Sorry x
> 
> ps - because a couple of people have asked me: YES Patsy and Delia are definitely going to meet in this story, I promise. Just not yet.

The morning brought more little bottles of milk and piles of buns for breakfast, laid out on tables at one end of the hall so they could help themselves (but watched over keenly by one of the teachers to make sure no one took more than their share). They had been too worn out to care very much last night; but this morning, already stiff, aching and cold from a night on the floor, the breakfast seemed a miserable one.  
  


If it was a _real_ camping holiday they would have made a campfire, and cooked sausages over it to eat with thickly buttered slices of fresh bread for breakfast. There’d have been hot chocolate to drink too, to make sure they got absolutely, properly warmed through, and maybe some chestnuts to roast in the embers as a treat (Patsy had never tried roast chestnuts, but they always sold them at Christmas in stories and they sounded lovely, and perfect for warming cold fingers).  
  


But there was nothing hot at all in the hall. The glass milk bottles felt even chillier than the icy hands that held them, and the only buns on offer were the plainest sorts, without any icing or raisins or even a sprinkle of sugar on the top (Patsy wondered, as she inspected hers without enthusiasm, why they even _made_ buns like this). They were stale too, as if the grown ups had got them last night with the supper buns and then just left them out all night long, rather than getting fresh ones from the bakery.  
  


Grace wouldn’t eat hers, putting her hands behind her back and sucking in her lips when Patsy tried to hand it to her.  
  


Well _fine_. Patsy didn’t feel like playing Little Mama today, not if her sister was going to be difficult. She decided she didn’t care a bit if Grace was hungry later. That would be her own fault, and she could jolly well lump it if she didn’t like it. She shrugged crossly and slammed Grace’s breakfast down on the floor beside her instead – a little harder than she’d meant to, so a bit of milk sloshed out over the open top of the bottle.  
  


But she didn’t care about that either.  
  


Patsy was feeling truly, thoroughly fed up. She was so sore and achey that it was making her hobble a little when she walked, like an old, old lady; Mama had lied about where they were going to stay so they were stuck here in this horrible hall instead of a comfy bedroom; and, now the immediate fear and confusion of the night before had passed, the incident outside the train station was rankling worse than ever.  
  


 _Grace_ had been the one having the tantrum. She was being bad and would have made them get lost and left behind, and yet she hadn’t been in trouble at all. Patsy got in trouble for trying to help, while Grace had been picked up and carried all the way here _and_ Patsy had been the one to say sorry when they met up again in the hall. Grace hadn’t been a bit sorry, even though she’d seen Patsy get shouted at for something that wasn’t her fault.  
  


It wasn’t _fair_ .  
  


Even Phyllis seemed to like Grace best and was babying her now, letting her sit on her lap again and coaxing her into eating her breakfast.  
  


‘Why don’t we imagine what we’d like best in the world to eat, and see if we can picture it so hard that we taste it when we take a bite of bun? I think mine will be… hmm, I know, I’m having hot jam roly poly with custard’.  
  


A giggle. ‘Not _really_ ’ .  
  


‘Oh yes, I can feel it warming up my fingers already, just from holding it. Ohh smell that lovely custard smell! Yum yum’.  
  


Patsy couldn’t help glancing over. Somehow Phyllis’ jam roly poly bun _did_ seem more appealing than her own normal one, even though she knew it was just a game. For a moment she wondered what _her_ bun would be, but then she stopped herself firmly. She wasn’t going to join in, not even inside her own head. After all, Phyllis hadn’t made up the roly poly for _her_. She looked away from them and forced down another dry bite. It stuck in her throat and did nothing to improve her mood.  
  


Grace however was utterly taken in, sniffing hard and poking her fingers at the bun in Phyllis’ hand, trying to feel the warm, sticky sponge cake she described. She watched enraptured as Phyllis took a bite, making an exaggerated expression of delight as she chewed.  
  


‘Oh, delicious! It’s an extra jammy one! And raspberry too, my favourite’.  
  


She took another big bite of the stale bun, catching an imagined drip of custard with her tongue, and Grace’s mouth opened a little, like a baby bird.  
  


‘Can I have jammy cake and custard too please Fliss?  
  


The ‘Fliss’ annoyed Patsy even more. It wasn’t Phyllis’ name, and she was sure (almost sure) that Grace knew perfectly well how to say it properly if she wanted to, she just wanted to make everyone think she was _sweet_. Phyllis didn’t even try to correct her though, just picked up Grace’s bun and held it out to her.  
  


‘You can have jam roly poly if that’s what you’d like. Just shut your eyes tight and take a big bite, and imagine as hard as you can. Or you can have something else if you prefer. What’s _your_ favourite pudding?’  
  


Grace thought about this very seriously for a while before answering.  
  


‘I like rice pudding with cream in, and a big spoon of jam on top’.  
  


‘Creamy rice pudding, that sounds delicious. Alright, let's think about rice pudding as hard as we can. Ready?’  
  


Phyllis continued this game, bite by bite, until the bun was gone. They did the same with the milk, imagining orange juice or hot chocolate or ginger beer with each swallow, while Patsy drank her own slightly sour milk down as quickly as she could, off to the side on her own.  
  


As soon as her horrid bottleful was empty she left Grace and Phyllis giggling away together and stomped off to the WC by herself. _Phyllis_ could help Grace if they were such great friends now, why should she care? Grace always wriggled and complained when she tried to brush her hair for her anyway, and would put her shoes on the wrong feet or put her dress on inside out if you didn’t watch her the whole time.  
  


The queue to use the WC was long again, but when her turn finally came she very nearly changed her mind and went straight back to the hall without going in. After so much heavy use, the WCs were disgusting. The smell was so bad that she had to cover her nose with her sleeve before she’d even got properly inside, and when she did she discovered that there was wee splashed everywhere, as if half the children using it hadn’t even _tried_ to get it in the toilet. She stood in the cubicle, staring down at the mess and trying to decide what to do; until someone yelled at her from outside to _hurry up_ .  
  


Patsy ended up hovering precariously above the toilet bowl, trying very hard not to let any part of her touch _anything_ , and emerged a minute later with the sour milk and stale bun churning uncomfortably in her stomach.  
  


Even the part of the room with the sinks was looking horrid now. There was no more wee thank goodness, but the lights didn’t work properly, flickering on and off and making a strange humming noise that made Patsy worry that a bee might be about to fly out at her from somewhere, and the sink was ringed with a thick grey tide of dirt. She shuddered a little, but gingerly splashed her hands and face all the same, and cleaned her teeth extra thoroughly to make up for not doing it the night before.  
  


That helped a bit with the sick feeling – at least the sour milky taste was gone, but she felt colder than ever after washing with the chilly tap water. Her fingers were so numb that she kept dropping her hair brush every time it hit a tangle, and then she couldn’t get her plaits to go right. They were all uneven and lumpy, with bits of hair coming loose from them so they looked even worse than when she’d started. Eventually she gave up and unravelled them altogether, letting her hair hang loose around her shoulders.  
  


She felt a mess – her dress was limp and sullied with smuts of soot from the train, her hair was tousled, and none of her felt properly clean after having to wash in the horrible bathroom.  
  


She wanted Maud to come and take charge – to run a warm bath with soft, rose scented soap and clean water just for her, then help her into a fresh dress, newly washed and ironed and smelling of the lavender sprigs she used to keep in their wardrobe (the closest they were allowed to come to wearing perfume). Maud would brush and plait her hair for her and tie it with new ribbons – _rainbow_ ones, instead of the white that Mama usually insisted on, and then they’d go downstairs for a big breakfast of bacon and buttery toast and eggs...  
  


But of course Maud didn’t come, and for want of anywhere else to go Patsy returned to where she’d left Phyllis and Grace in the hall, though she still felt a bit annoyed with them both.  
  


Phyllis _had_ helped Grace to get changed, and was now in the process of doing her hair for her, so _Grace’s_ plaits were neat and even (much neater than Patsy would have managed for her squirmy little sister, even on her best days). Patsy felt a stab of envy when she saw them that made her want to reach forward and give each one a hard tug. Not because she wanted to hurt her sister exactly, but because it didn’t feel fair that she should look so tidy and cheerful when Patsy felt so miserable. Maybe if Grace was miserable too then she’d feel better, like the bad mood was shared between them rather than Patsy having to carry it all on her own.  
  


But of course she _didn’t_ pull her sister’s plaits, no matter how tempting (because she _wasn’t_ a bully actually, Mrs know-it-all-clipboard), she just glared hard at the floor and balled her fists up tight in the limp folds of her dress.  
  


She was still hovering a few paces away, trying to decide whether to turn round and stomp off again (even though she would just have to do an awkward lap of the hall and then come back), when Phyllis looked up and caught her eye.  
  


‘There you are lass’.  
  


She took in Patsy’s scowl and her loose, untidy hair, then added ‘would you like me to do your hair for you next?’  
  


Patsy hesitated. Quite a lot of her wanted to say no, because she still felt annoyed and sulky and agreeing would feel like losing ground somehow… but she also really _did_ want Phyllis to do her hair. Especially because Phyllis was very nearly grown up and might know all sorts of hair styles that were more interesting than Patsy’s usual baby plaits. And maybe the fact that she’d offered meant that she didn’t like Grace best after all, not for definite; but if Patsy turned her down and stomped off by herself, that would surely decide things.  
  


‘Could you put it up properly for me? All up high with the rolly bits?’  
  


‘Well, I think we’d better stick to plaits for today. But tell you what, if we can manage to borrow some rollers and pins and things some time, I’ll see what I can do for you another day. How does that sound?’  
  


It didn’t sound as good as getting a proper grown up hairstyle right that minute, but at least Phyllis didn’t say no outright like Mama would have (she always said she didn’t have the time to waste spending hours on Patsy’s hair when she’d only go off and mess it up anyway, and besides, grown up hairstyles looked ludicrous on little girls).  
  


It was also true that Mama had to use all sorts of sprays and combs and pins to make her hair stay up, so maybe it really would be too difficult to manage in the hall.  
  


‘That sounds _quite_ good. Thank you Phyll-is’.  
  


She couldn’t resist emphasising the double syllable as her eyes caught on Grace, who was brushing Kitty’s short fur with her fingers and trying unsuccessfully to plait that too.  
  


‘When we _do_ put our hair up properly, Grace won’t get to have it as well will she? Because she’d just mess around with everything and spoil it all, and she can’t even keep her normal plaits tidy, let alone proper grown up hair’.  
  


‘No, I think playing hairdressers would have to just be for us older girls. I’m not sure Grace would feel like sitting still for long enough anyway, and I don’t think it would be safe to let her anywhere near a curling iron, if we managed to find one’.  
  


Grace didn’t seem to be remotely bothered by this devastating blow (she maybe wasn’t even listening), but Patsy felt a little thrill of triumph even so. Phyllis might fix her sister’s plaits for her the way their nanny had used to do, but getting it properly styled would just be for Phyllis and Patsy, because they were the two big girls together, and Grace was just the little baby that they were both looking after.  
  


It made her feel almost charitable towards her sister as she took her place in front of Phyllis.  
  


Phyllis started to brush her hair with firm but gentle strokes. It did tug a _bit_ , but nowhere near as much as when Mama did it. S _he_ always got impatient and yanked the tangles so hard that your head got pulled right backwards and your scalp smarted for ages after. Patsy usually did it herself to avoid this, but if they were going out then Mama insisted, because she couldn’t have them wandering around like ragamuffins ( “what would people _think_ ?” ). Phyllis felt more like Maud, taking care not to scrape her scalp and going slowly so that none of the tangles snagged too hard, and Patsy found herself relaxing a bit under the sure, steady strokes.  
  


‘You’ve got such _pretty_ hair Patsy, such a lovely bright colour!’  
  


That came as a surprise. So far Phyllis had seemed always to tell them the truth, but this had to be just a kind lie. Mama _hated_ Patsy’s red hair, she was always lamenting that she took after her father in that respect, and was forever sighing and telling her it clashed with this dress or that hair ribbon that she’d chosen.  
  


‘Do you _really_ like it? Mama said I could dye it blonde when I’m older, to look like her and Grace’.  
  


‘Well, you _could_ dye it blonde, and I’m sure you’d look lovely, but it would be such a waste. I think red hair is so much more interesting and unusual. And yours is such a nice shade too. It goes carroty and orange on some girls, but not yours. Blonde hair is nice, but blondes are ten a penny. You’re more _unique_ Patsy’.  
  


Phyllis plaited as she spoke, finishing each braid with quick efficiency and then sitting back to survey her handiwork.  
  


‘There you are, how’s that?’  
  


Patsy looked down at the tight, smooth plaits hanging over her shoulders, the ribbons tied in neat bows at the ends, and felt a bit warmer inside, even though the hall was still chilly. Maybe the red _was_ nice, in its own sort of way. It definitely stood out more than Grace’s mousey blonde. And being unique sounded like a nice thing to be.  
  


‘I think _you’re_ unique too, Phyllis. I know you’ve got brown hair, but I think you’re still full of uniqueness, so it’s _like_ you have bright hair. Even brighter than red hair. Pink! Or sky blue!’  
  


Phyllis laughed properly at that ‘oh kid, what an idea. Imagine me with bright blue hair! I don’t think Mrs Barton would like it much’.  
  


‘I think it would look very, _very_ unique!’  
  


‘That it would lass’.  
  


Patsy stroked her smooth plaits, and thought about Phyllis’ promise to do it up properly for her one day, and at last managed to pluck up the courage to ask the thing she’d been thinking about ever since the train.  
  


‘Phyllis, do you think… I mean, would you _mind_ , if Grace and I got sent to stay at the same place as you?’  
  


‘Would you really like that?’  
  


Phyllis sounded surprised, as if the idea that Patsy might want that hadn’t even occurred to her.  
  


‘Of course we would! You're our best friend ever’.  
  


‘Well then, of course I wouldn’t mind being billeted together. If we’re allowed. It wouldn’t do us any harm to ask, anyway. You’re a good kid, our Patsy’.  
  


Patsy just had time for a warm glow of happy relief to spread through her chest before they were interrupted by the sound of a whistle being blown, so loud and sudden that they jumped and all chatter around the hall stopped abruptly.  
  


‘Now then children, listen closely please! In a few minutes we shall start taking the first groups of you to your new homes, so I want you all to gather your things and put your coats on, then wait nicely for your teachers to tell you what to do next. We’ll have groups going to lots of different places, so it’s very important that you all pay attention and go where you’re told. Do you understand?’  
  


She paused to receive a few nods and yeses, and then continued. ‘Very good. Milk bottles are to be returned to the breakfast table, and please make sure you leave nothing behind, you won’t be able to come back and fetch it later. You may begin packing your belongings’.  
  


Conversation erupted around the hall again as everyone discussed the announcement and hurried to gather their cases. Phyllis and Patsy packed away what few things they’d gotten out the night before, and Phyllis buttoned Grace into her coat while Patsy stowed Kitty safely away in the case. Grace hadn’t wanted to relinquish him, but the threat of loss proved too much and she handed him over without much fuss when Patsy pointed out that they would never, ever find him again if he got left here.  
  


They held hands in a line then, Patsy and Phyllis on either side of Grace, and watched as one by one school groups were called to the front of the hall and then led away. Patsy noticed that sometimes there would be an older child or two going along with a class of five year olds, or littler children accompanying an older group, and her spirits rose. It seemed that siblings got to stay together, even if they went to different schools. So maybe they would be able to stay with Phyllis, even if their schools got separated? She gave Grace’s hand a gentle squeeze, tightening her grip on their little trio as if she could keep them together by force of will alone.  
  


The hall was about half empty when at last she heard:  
  


‘St Agnes girls, over here please! Can I have all St Agnes girls with me!’  
  


It was the lady that had told Patsy off the night before, and she flinched a little in horror. They couldn’t go with _her_ . What if she remembered Patsy and would tell her off again? And Sister Bernard would be going too of course – her two least favourite grown ups in one group.  
  


They were supposed to go and line up, but Patsy didn’t move, not even when Grace tugged on her hand and said ‘we’re meant to _go_ Patsy’.  
  


‘No, we’ll stay here and join Phyllis’ group instead. We don’t even _go_ to St Agnes. No one will notice if we aren’t there’.  
  


With a sudden stroke of inspiration, Patsy turned her label round to show the blank side, and Grace’s too. She was tempted to pull them off altogether and hide them, but didn’t quite dare go that far. It wouldn’t matter anyway. They just had to stay put until the St Agnes group left, and then the remaining grown ups would have no choice but to let them go with Phyllis because there wouldn’t be anywhere else to send them.  
  


But Sister Bernard was frowning as she counted her pupils. She was turning to scan the children left in the hall- Patsy tried to duck behind Phyllis’ back, but it was too late.  
  


‘You two, little Mount girls! Weren’t you listening? St Agnes was called five minutes ago. Come along please. You’re rather making a habit of this lateness’.  
  


‘Please couldn’t we go with a different group, Sister Bernard?’  
  


‘Of course you may not. Come _along_ now’.  
  


Sister Bernard strode over to them, snatching Grace’s hand from Phyllis and taking a firm hold of Patsy’s shoulder.  
  


‘We were hoping that we’d all be able to stay together, Sister. If Patsy and Grace have to go with St Agnes, perhaps I could be allowed to come with your group as well? I’m sure I could be useful to you and help look after the younger ones’.  
  


Hope flared in Patsy’s chest as Phyllis spoke – surely Sister Bernard would have to listen to her? She was nearly a grown up, and she sounded so polite and sensible, _and_ she was offering to help out with the smaller children. But Sister Bernard made a rude little snorting noise in her nose, and looked down at Phyllis with a horrible, snooty expression, her gaze lingering on her too-short sleeves and let down hem, until Phyllis’ cheeks went pink and she looked away.  
  


‘I think not... _dear_ ’ .  
  


Patsy actually stamped her foot then, because Phyllis looked so sad and uncomfortable and Sister Bernard was being so _mean_ .  
  


‘We _have_ to stay with Phyllis. She’s our- our big sister. Mama would be ever so cross if we got separated, she said we all three had to stay together’.  
  


Sister Bernard actually laughed at that, but it wasn’t a _nice_ laugh.  
  


‘That girl is _not_ your sister. The very idea! I don’t think your mother would appreciate these lies would she, hmm? What would she say if she knew you were claiming a girl like _that_ \- no. It’s quite impossible. Now, you two come along nicely at once’.  
  


Patsy opened her mouth to argue further, but Phyllis stopped her before she could get the words out.  
  


‘It’s alright lass. You’d better go along with Sister Bernard now. I expect it’ll be easier for you to find a billet on your own anyway, two lovely, neat little girls like you. I’d only make it harder for you to find a good place if I tagged along’.  
  


‘No, you _wouldn’t_. It won’t _be_ a good place if you’re not there’.  
  


‘Of course it will. And once we’re both settled I’ll try and find out where you’re staying and write to you. Alright?’  
  


‘But… but what about our hair dressing?’  
  


‘I know, I’m sorry. Maybe there’ll be someone where you’re going that will be able to do it for you instead?’  
  


‘It’s not the same’.  
  


Phyllis stooped to give her a hug.  
  


‘Chin up lass. You found me didn’t you? Well, now you’ll find new friends. You’re a brave girl, and I know you’ll get along alright no matter what. You _and_ Grace’.  
  


‘Fliss?’  
  


Grace’s voice sounded very small, and Phyllis turned to give her a hug as well.  
  


‘You and Patsy are going to go with Sister Bernard now Grace, so that you can find a lovely home together. I can’t come this time, but don’t you worry. You’ll have your big sister and your Kitty, and everything will be just fine. Alright?’  
  


Grace’s lip wobbled and she shook her head ‘I want you to come _too,_ Fliss’.  
  


‘Oh for goodness sake, will you children stop all these histrionics? Patience, Grace, that is enough. You’re keeping everyone waiting and you’re making a ridiculous spectacle of yourselves. Say goodbye nicely to this girl and come _along_ ’ .  
  


Phyllis gave them a final hug, then pressed a barley sugar each into their hands.  
  


‘Good luck little lasses’.  
  


‘Good luck Phyllis’.  
  


‘Bye bye Fliss’.  
  


Grace was crying again as Sister Bernard led them away, looking back at Phyllis and waving again and again. Patsy looked back just once for a final wave, giving Phyllis a big smile the way Mama had told her to do at the station, so their friend wouldn’t be sad for them. Phyllis was a big, nearly grown up 14 year old, but somehow, standing there all on her own, she seemed suddenly very small. Nearly as small as Patsy, and maybe even nearly as frightened too.  
  


She wished then that she’d fought harder to keep them together – that she had hidden before Sister Bernard could spot them, or all three run away together...  
  


But it was too late.  
  


Patsy and Grace were loaded onto a bus outside the hall, and Phyllis stayed behind.


	8. Delia

On Saturday morning Delia came downstairs to find Nain already in the kitchen, stirring a pot of porridge over the stove.  
  


‘ Good morning babi! Are you hungry?’  
  


‘Very, _very_ hungry’.  
  


Porridge at Nain’s was the  _ best _ .  
  


Not because she got to have extra sugar on it like she had at home yesterday (Nain only let her have the tiniest drizzle of honey or golden syrup over the top and no sugar at all), but because it was bright  _ pink _ .  
  


Nain grew raspberries and strawberries and red currants in her garden, and during the summer she would pick them early in the morning and sprinkle them straight into the cooking porridge to let their juice soak into the oats. It turned them the prettiest colour, so you could almost believe you were eating some sort of pudding instead of normal breakfast. Even in winter when there was no fruit growing, they still got to have pink porridge, because Nain would cook and store anything that she couldn’t eat right away in jars. Fresh fruit  _ tasted  _ best, but bottled made a deeper shade of pink, and made all of the porridge taste fruitier instead of just the bits where the berry lumps were, so both were good.  
  


Delia set the table while Nain finished cooking, laying out spoons and cups, and then finding her own favourite bowl (yellow rimmed with a picture of a duck and a hen inside, the same one she’d used on visits since she was old enough to hold her own spoon), and Nain’s (white with little blue flowers). They had perfected their routine over many visits, and by the time Delia had clambered up into her chair, Nain was already ladling porridge into their bowls and pouring a glass of milk for her.  
  


The porridge looked delicious, delicate curls of steam twisting up from its colourful surface, but she didn’t begin to eat.  
  


She sat still and watched Nain expectantly as she finished dishing up her own porridge, then took the empty pot away.  
  


Once it had been put to soak in the sink, the moment Delia had been waiting for arrived.  
  


Nain went to a cupboard and took out the golden syrup tin with great ceremony. She wielded a spoon as if it was a magic wand, flourishing it in the air before using it to prize off the sticky lid.  
  


‘ Now then, what shall we have today? A ‘D’ for Delia? A heart? A moon? Shall we really stretch my artistic skills and attempt a flower?’  
  


This was the _best_ best part about Nain’s porridge. She didn’t let Delia have very much syrup on it, but she _did_ drizzle it into a new interesting design each time.  
  


Delia pondered seriously, gazing down at her bowl for inspiration.  
  


‘ Hmm… maybe a clock face, like Silk y ’s clock from the book last night? Or the fairy baby? Or… oh, I can’t choose!’  
  


‘ Alright, a surprise then! You watch very carefully and see if you can guess what it is’.  
  


Nain loaded her spoon just _half_ full of syrup - too much and it globbed off in a big lump straight into the bowl instead of running down in a thin drizzle that you could draw with. That was lovely sometimes because it meant that Delia got extra syrup, but it would also ruin the game because then she didn’t get a picture, so she didn’t like it to happen _too_ often.  
  


The design started with a curved line, running parallel to the edge of the bowl, and then cut straight across the top to join up the two ends.  
  


‘It _is_ a D for Delia!’  
  


‘ Not quite, keep watching’.  
  


Nain made another, thicker line sticking up from the middle of the straight part of the D shape, and then drew a (slightly wonky) triangle around the new line. It definitely wasn’t a D for Delia, and the triangle part didn’t look like a letter at all. It was…  
  


‘ It’s a boat!’  
  


‘Yes! Well _done_ cariad! It’s just like the one in your wonderful story about the shipwreck yesterday. Actually, the syrup-boat is a tiny little hint. I was hoping you could tell me how the story ended while we have our breakfast. I was so sorry not to find out, and I don’t like to think of all those poor sailors staying stranded in the forest forever!’  
  


Delia felt a happy burst of pride. All grown ups would say ‘very good’ if you made up a story for them even if they hadn’t listened to a single word, but Nain had actually liked it _so_ much that she’d remembered about it the _next day_ and wanted to find out the ending.  
  


She had been planning that the sailors would go through many more gruelling adventures before any of them had the slightest chance of escaping the woods, maybe one or two being eaten by tigers or getting lost among the trees and going mad... But she knew Nain would prefer a happy ending, so instead of the fresh torments the sailors might otherwise have faced, she made up a gentler version.  
  


In between bites of porridge, she told how the littlest cabin girl (because why should they all be cabin _boys?_ ) came up with the idea of building a raft and going back the way they had come. It took several tries to get it right, but eventually they all climbed aboard and floated back up the stream, all the way to the big river. They had to sail through perilous rapids, and then one of the sailors very _nearly_ got eaten by a giant pike, but he was saved at the last second when the fish leapt too high out of the water and got stuck in a tree.  
  


Eventually, the little group made it all the way back to the sea and discovered a circus, just setting up on the beach. They joined them for a while, helping look after the elephant and the lion and all the monkeys (because they were used to wild animals after living with them in the forest), and as luck would have it, the next town the circus was travelling to was the very one they had come from! They all made it back safe and sound and never left their homes again, except for the littlest cabin girl, who stayed on with the circus as their finest acrobat and elephant rider. But her family joined the circus too, so they were happy as well and she wasn’t lonely. They all learned to do circus tricks and became the star turn of the whole show, and they got to eat toffee apples for breakfast  _ every single day _ . And so they all lived happily ever after.  
  


Nain actually put down her spoon and applauded when Delia finished the story, clapping so hard it was as if the whole circus audience was joining in, right there in their kitchen.  
  


‘ That was absolutely  _ wonderful  _ cariad! How do you come up with all those ideas?’  
  


Delia swallowed the last bite of her porridge and beamed, glowing under the warmth of Nain’s praise.  
  


‘ I don’t know, they just pop into my head and I know that’s how it goes’.  
  


‘ Well, you could knock spots off old Enid Blyton, for all that Faraway tree story is so lovely. I’m so impressed, Delia. I hope you’ll tell me more stories later, while you’re helping me in the garden’.  
  


‘ What are we doing in the garden? Is it time to dig up the vegetables?’  
  


‘Well, it’s getting to be time to harvest some of them, yes, and it would be lovely to have your help with that another day. But today I had a different sort of project in mind. _Burying_ instead of digging’.  
  


‘ Burying? Is this another game? Will we be burying  _ pirate treasure? _ ’  
  


‘ Not exactly, although what we’re going to bury will be very important. You didn’t look in the back garden yesterday, did you?’  
  


Delia thought back. They had stayed in the front garden to eat their fish and chips, and although Nain had been out earlier in the day to pick the runner beans, Delia had stayed in the kitchen. She wasn’t really supposed to play in the back garden, because it was all full of Nain’s fruit and vegetable plants, and it was very easy to accidentally trample them if you got caught up in a game and forgot to stay on the paths between the beds.  
  


She shook her head.  
  


‘ Well, it might look a bit different to how you remember it just at the moment. If you go upstairs and put on an old dress that you can get dirty in, then I’ll show you’.  
  


Nain washed the dishes and Delia dried and put them away, and then charged upstairs to find one of the old dresses that  M am had packed for her. She was absolutely bursting with curiosity about what could be going on in Nain’s back garden.  
  


What could they possibly be _burying_? Apart from seeds (or treasure, but Nain had said that wasn’t it), she couldn’t think of anything you might want to bury in a garden, and you didn’t call it burying with seeds, you called it ‘planting’, so it couldn’t be that.  
  


She scrambled into her ‘not to be worn in public, what-would-the-neighbours-say’ dress as quickly as she could. It had a large mismatched patch where she’d torn it right down one side on a nail last summer, and the hem was a tiny bit short for her now, the fabric limp and faded from many washes. It was _perfect_ for getting messy without it mattering. The socks she put on were yesterdays too, because she decided if they were going to get muddy then that would be better than putting on a fresh pair and having to change them again later. She felt gloriously scruffy as she thumped back down the stairs, ready to splash paint around or fall into a giant muddy bog, let alone whatever they were really going to do in the garden.  
  


Nain helped her to tuck her hair up into a scarf out the way while Delia shuffled impatiently from foot to foot, and then they were finally ready.  
  


They pushed open the back door, and Delia stared, her mouth hanging open.  
  


The nearest part of the garden looked just the same as always –  neat beds full of vegetables or fruit plants filling every bit of space, apart from the narrow paths between them that let you get from one to another. But right at the back, where there used to be lettuce and radishes, the vegetable beds had completely gone. In their place were huge heaps of soil, piled all around and about a strange, curved metal thing sticking out of the ground. For a confused moment she thought it must be the boat from her story, flung right out of the woods in the fury of the storm, somehow landing right here in their own garden.  
  


But it wasn’t a boat.  
  


She couldn’t work out  _ what  _ it was.  
  


‘ That’s our new Anderson shelter. It’s to keep us safe, just in case there are any bombs’.  
  


‘ How will it… keep us safe?’  
  


It didn’t _look_ very safe. It looked strange and messy, and she wasn’t at all sure she liked it being in Nain’s garden.  
  


It didn’t belong here.  
  


‘ Well, if any bomber planes fly over, we’ll be able to run inside where they can’t get to us, and sleep safe and sound until it’s alright to come out again. The scout troops have been working all summer to help us older folks to get them dug in while the weather was good, and ours is almost finished now. We just need to pile all that loose dirt over the roof and around the shelter to make it extra safe, and then we’ll be able to use it. Shall I show you what to do?’  
  


‘ I… suppose so…’  
  


She usually loved working with Nain in the garden, but she wasn’t sure she _did_ want to help this time. She would rather go inside and read a book, or even do more washing up.  
  


Anything to not have to look at the torn up garden and the strange, corrugated roof of the Anderson shelter. Just the sight of it made her shiver a little.  
  


‘ Don’t worry cariad, it’s just a precaution. I’m sure we won’t see many bombs around here, maybe not any at all. But it’ll be nice to know we have our shelter all ready for us if we need it, don’t you think?’  
  


‘ Mmm’.  
  


She wasn't sure how to explain that looking at the shelter made her feel wobbly inside, and that she thought maybe she’d rather just stay in the house, even if there were bombs, than have to get into this horrible little metal hut. _Especially_ at night.  
  


She followed Nain to the end of the garden and helped scoop the loose earth over it all the same though. Maybe they could just bury it completely and forget about it.  
  


They flung spadefuls of earth all over the roof and around the low sides, then patted it down firmly before adding more. Nain tried to draw her into storytelling again, but Delia wasn’t in the mood to make things up anymore.  
  


‘ Shall we sing a working song instead?’  
  


‘ No thank you’.  
  


‘ Oh, alright then... Maybe in a little while?’  
  


Nain was giving her a worried sort of look, so Delia forced a little smile and said ‘Yes, maybe’, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.  
  


She went back to scooping and patting in forlorn silence while Nain kept up the conversation for both of them, trying to get her interested in stories about giant moles and secret caves.  
  


She only really half listened to them, concentrating on what her hands doing and the cool feeling of the soil under her bare knees, until Nain said:  
  


‘ It’s almost like we’re planting a giant seed, isn’t it? Maybe planting a shelter seed is how you get a tree full of houses, like the Faraway tree. Just imagine if our little shelter sprouted up like that!’  
  


That actually _was_ quite an interesting idea.  
  


Delia wondered what sort of shelter-seed the Faraway tree might have come from. Had it started out as a little mole house, like Moley’s from Wind in the Willows? It certainly wouldn’t have been one like their Anderson shelter, she was sure. It would be a brighter, friendlier sort, with cheerfully painted walls and cosy little beds inside. _Their_ shelter wouldn’t make a nice tree at all.  
  


‘ I don’t think I’d like that very much…’  
  


‘ Really? I thought you loved the Faraway tree!’  
  


‘ I do, but…’  
  


She bit her lip, trying to work out how to explain.  
  


‘ I think this shelter would grow into a very different sort of tree. It would be… scary’.  
  


Nain looked down at their half covered metal shelter, the entrance a dark gap leading into a bleak, empty little hollow.  
  


‘ Hmm… I see what you mean. It’s not very inviting looking at the moment is it?’  
  


‘ It looks  _ horrid _ . I don’t want to sleep in there Nain!’  
  


It was probably rude of her to say that when all the boys from the scouts and Nain herself had worked so hard to build the shelter, but it  _ was  _ horrid, and she hated even looking at its dark entrance. It was like a tomb.  
  


Nain put down her spade then, and climbed up to sit beside Delia on the roof.  
  


‘ I know it looks a bit strange and bare just now, but we aren’t finished yet. I promise it will be much nicer when we’re done. Once we’ve finished piling earth over it, we can plant vegetables over the top so it’ll look more like the rest of the garden. Maybe even some flowers too, around the entrance.  
  


And that's when we’ll start on the  _ really  _ important bit. I’ll need you to be chief picture drawer so we can stick them up all over the walls to make it look homey inside, and also help me decide what else we might want to put in to make it pretty and comfy. We’ll make up some beds in there, and have lamps and books and food supplies in case we need a snack. By the time we’re finished I’m sure it’ll be so cosy we’ll be tempted to have sleepovers in there just for the fun of it.  
  


We can pretend to be bunnies snuggled up in our burrow, just like when you were little. Do you remember? You used to hide under the bed and say it was your rabbit hole!’  
  


Delia nodded. She was much too old for twee bunny games now of course, but the shelter _would_ have made a perfect rabbit hole. It really did look a bit like one, now the metal was mostly hidden by earth.  
  


She didn’t say it out loud to Nain, but she thought privately that maybe _Biscuit_ would still enjoy being a bunny in a burrow down here, and that helped a tiny bit.  
  


‘ You won’t leave me down there by myself, will you?’  
  


‘ Not unless there’s a real emergency’.  
  


‘Not even if there _is_ an emergency. I don’t want to wake up by myself, I won’t know where you are or if you’re ever coming back’.  
  


‘ Tell you what. If I ever do have to, I’ll wake you up and tell you exactly where I’m going first, so you won’t have to worry about me just being gone. Alright?’  
  


‘Are you _sure_ you can’t promise just to stay with me instead?’  
  


‘I wish I could babi, but I can’t promise one hundred percent, because we don’t know what might happen yet. I _can_ promise you that I will do my very best not to have to leave you in there on your own, and if I ever do, I’ll come back just as quickly as I can. Alright?’  
  


Delia would have preferred Nain to promise absolutely that she would never ever have to go into the shelter at all, or at least never be on her own in it if she did… but she couldn’t help being a little bit glad that Nain didn’t just say what she wanted to hear to make her feel better without really meaning it. Grown ups were always promising things they didn’t mean and then seeming annoyed or confused when they broke their word and she got upset.  
  


'Well… alright. But try VERY hard not to need to go anywhere'.  
  


'I'll try my very hardest'.  
  


'Good'.  
  


'Do you think you could manage a bit more helping now? Just another  half  hour or so, and then I thought you could go over to play with Marged for the day’.  
  


Marged lived just along the road from Nain, and they often played together when Delia came to visit.  
  


‘Oh _yes!_ But won't you need me to keep helping? I don't think it will be finished by then…’  
  


‘ That’s very kind of you to offer, but actually, I’ll need to stop at the same time you do. I’ve agreed to help the WVS with the evacuees today, so I’ll drop you off and then go up to the town hall to meet them’.  
  


_Evacuees!_ Just like Mam had said. They really were going to be staying here!  
  


‘ Couldn’t I come and see the evacuees as well? Please, please, please?’  
  


‘ I don’t think so, babi. The poor things have had to leave their parents behind and come on a long train journey to a new place where they don’t know anyone. I expect they’ll all be feeling very tired and frightened, and won’t want curious children coming along to stare at them’.  
  


‘I won’t _stare_ at them. I’ll just look’.  
  


‘I know you won’t mean to. But we need to do our best to think about what we’d want in their position, and I think _I’d_ want it to be as quiet and gentle as possible, with just a few kind helpers showing me what to do. I wouldn’t want to feel like I was in a zoo, would you?’  
  


Delia thought about this. She wasn’t quite sure she agreed with Nain. A long train journey without anyone telling you to sit nicely or be quiet sounded exciting – like an even bigger adventure than the one they’d had yesterday.  
  


And surely it would be _nice_ for them to see a friendly face? Nicer to see other children there rather than just a lot of old grown ups anyway.  
  


‘I think I’d _like_ to see a local child that wanted to make friends with me if I was them’.  
  


‘ _You_ know that you want to be friends, but how would they know that? They’d just see you looking at them and not know you meant it to be friendly rather than rude. Besides, I’m not really sure you _would_ like it. Remember how you were feeling yesterday after Mam went home? Well, think how it would have felt if there’d been a group of children standing in the kitchen watching you cry, even if they _were_ friendly’.  
  


‘ Oh. I didn’t think of that…’  
  


It would have been truly horrible to have strange children just standing there watching her be upset or angry and not be able to do anything about it… but she still wasn’t _quite_ ready to give up on seeing the evacuees.  
  


‘ Couldn’t I come and be a volunteer like you then? I could be helpful, I know I could. I so, so want to see them Nain’.  
  


Nain sighed and gave her muddy knee a pat with her equally soil-encrusted hand.  
  


‘ I know you do, but I just don’t think it’s a good idea. There’ll be so many children and grown ups packed into the hall already, and I wouldn’t have time to keep a proper eye on you. What if you got mistaken for an evacuee yourself and someone took you away? I really would prefer you to go and play with Marged where I know you’ll be safe’.  
  


What Nain said made sense, but it was still disappointing. Delia tucked her chin against her chest and mumbled ‘alright’ just loud enough for Nain to hear her.  
  


‘ That’s my good girl. You will have plenty more chances to meet the evacuees once they’ve settled into their new homes anyway, even if you might not see all of them together like in the hall. I’m sure you’ll be able to make friends properly then’.  
  


‘ Do you really think so?’  
  


‘ Absolutely. I expect some of them will even be in your class when you start school. You can bond over being new girls together!’  
  


Delia remembered how she had imagined meeting Sara Crewe among the evacuees, and the two of them becoming instant best friends and sharing a desk at school. Maybe it _would_ be nicer to meet someone like Sara in a smaller group, rather than in the middle of a crowded hall where they wouldn’t be able to talk properly.  
  


‘ Alright’.  
  


She said it more definitely this time, and picked up the spade again to start on the next pile of earth.  
  


‘ Nain?’  
  


‘ Yes cariad?’  
  


‘ Did I ever tell you about the  fisherman who accidentally fished  a mermaid?’  
  


‘ Do you know, I don’t think you ever did. Will you tell me now?’   
  


‘Once upon a time…’


	9. Patsy

After the noise and confusion of the hall, the  St Agnes girls seemed  almost unnaturally quiet and well behaved. They sat demurely under the s tern gaze of Sister Bernard and Miss Richmond (which, it turned out, was Mrs Know-it-all-Clipboard’s real name) and murmured to each other very softly –  no one shouting or shoving or talking in the strange cockney dialect that she barely understood .  It  _ should _ have been a relief to be around girls more like themselves again, but Patsy found herself hunching down in her seat, trying to avoid the stares she could feel brushing her skin like the horrid, sticky strands of spider webs. She was sure that they were all talking about her and Grace, giggling to each other a bout how Sister Bernard had  actually had to go and  _ fetch  _ them and drag them up to the front of the hall in utter disgrace.  
  


She was losing count of all the things that Mama would be ashamed of them for since they left London. Maybe she wouldn’t ever want them back now, and they’d have to stay evacuees forever.  
  


Patsy held on tightly to Matilda inside her pocket, and whispered Phyllis’ words to herself, over and over inside her head. ‘Chin up lass. You’re a brave girl, and I know you’ll get along alright no matter what. Chin up lass…’  
  


Their final destination was another hall, this one in a  village surrounded by farmland and little patches of forest. It looked different from the first hall, with flowers planted outside and a notice pinned to the door that looked like it had been illustrated by a child - ‘Join us in the Brownies!’.  
  


It looked… nice.  
  


As they filed off the bus however, Patsy noticed a little gaggle of children staring at them from across the road. When they realised they had caught the attention of some of the evacuees, they started pulling faces and calling out in an unfamiliar accent that was nothing like anyone that Patsy had heard before, so it took her a moment to realise that the things they were shouting were not very friendly.  
  


‘Urgh, _more_ evacuees!’  
  


‘ And all  _ girls _ , worse luck!’  
  


‘Look at that one, doesn’t she have a face like a mouldy turnip?’  
  


‘ Go on back  home girlies, we don’t want you here!’  
  


As soon as Sister Bernard stepped down from the bus and made to cross the road towards them they scattered, running in every direction so she couldn’t possibly chase them all. She drew herself up haughtily instead and glared at as many children as she could before they all disappeared round corners or over walls. The tirade had only lasted a few moments, but it was enough to take the hopeful shine off the village and make Patsy worry that maybe they wouldn’t find any friends here after all. She wasn’t sure she _wanted_ to be their friends if they were all going to be like those children had been, but it made her miss Phyllis more than ever.  
  


Sister Bernard was still puffed up with rage as she ushered them into a line, her nostrils quivering and twin spots of red standing out high on her cheekbones.  
  


‘ What  _ terrible  _ manners those young scoundrels had, it’s shameful! I trust that you girls will conduct yourselves with more decorum while you are here, and offer yourselves as a shining example to the local rabble. We are going to raise the tone of the village, not sink to its level. Isn’t that right, St Agnes?’  
  


There were murmurs of ‘yes Sister Bernard’ around her, but Patsy didn’t join in. She was not part of St Agnes, and she didn’t think that Sister Bernard thought of her as a shining example at all.  
  


They made a subdued procession as they marched up to the hall doors. The St Agnes girls seemed to have been flustered by the scene with the local children as well, and there was no more whispering or giggling as Sister Bernard led them into a room already crowded with row after row of children. For one foolish moment Patsy scanned their faces in search of Phyllis – there were so many that surely one of them _must_ be her; but of course she wasn’t there. These were a whole new group, and wherever Phyllis was now, she was probably with a new group as well, just as big. Patsy thought about how many children there were in front of her, and then how many had gone on to other places from the train or the first hall, and all the _other_ trains that had left London, and the trains that must have gone out from other cities as well, hundreds upon thousands of evacuees. So many it hardly seemed possible that there could be room for all of them in the whole country, let alone just in the countryside...  
  


This thought was interrupted by the approach of a new grown up, who smiled down at the girls and then turned to shake hands with Sister Bernard and Miss  Richmond .  
  


‘ Welcome, welcome. Mr Dodds telephoned to let us know to expect a few last minute extras. We hadn’t planned on taking so many of course, but I’m sure we’ll cope somehow. I’m afraid we do already have quite a full house, so your girls will just have to squeeze in wherever they can find room. The prospective hosts are due to start arriving at noon, so the first of them should be here any minute’.  
  


‘ Thank you, Mrs…?’  
  


‘ Beavin, dear’.  
  


‘ Thank you Mrs Beavin. Well girls, you heard Mrs Beavin didn’t you? Off you go and find somewhere to stand with the other children. You’ll be collected soon’.  
  


Patsy and Grace were not the only ones to hesitate this time, but after a moment of trepidation the girls’ fear of being scolded by Sister Bernard overcame their reluctance to join another big group of unfamiliar children and they moved forwards, filtering into the crowd in twos and threes until they were utterly absorbed by it.  
  


Patsy led her sister through the untidy rows of children, picking their way carefully around bags and suitcases. They ended up towards the back of the hall, next to a lanky boy with sticking out ears and knobbly knees poking out from beneath his short trousers. He had a well scrubbed look that made Patsy think that Mama wouldn’t object too strongly to them standing next to him, but he also didn’t look like very promising material for a new friend. He didn’t so much as glance at them when they came to stand beside him, just kept watching the front doors with an intense, fearful sort of expression, as if at any moment a pack of wolves might come howling in to eat him.  
  


Well, maybe they would.  
  


Nothing about evacuation so far had matched what Patsy had expected, and almost all of it had been worse than she had known to fear (except for meeting Phyllis of course, but they had only got to stay with her for a day, and having to say goodbye had been the worst thing of all).  
  


So maybe hungry wolves running in to eat them all was just the next Bad Thing that was going to happen to them in a long line of Bad Things.  
  


She got so deeply engrossed in this thought, imagining her own tragic (but heroic) demise between the jaws of a pack of wolves, that when the doors actually did open she jumped, grabbing for Grace’s hand as if it really was wild animals coming for them.  
  


Actually, it was a group of very ordinary looking grown ups, nattering away amongst themselves and eyeing up the children waiting in lines for their inspection with expressions ranging from pity, to curiosity, to outright distaste. For a moment the sight of them was a relief (although she knew really how silly her imaginary wolves had been), but once they started moving among the children and making their choices, Patsy found that it felt rather a lot like being hunted after all.  
  


The worst thing was the way the grown ups talked about them all –  comparing children’s heights, their clothes, the attractiveness of their features and cleanliness of their faces quite openly, as if they weren’t standing right there, listening to every word. It felt even worse than being a labelled parcel at the station. Now they were reduced to mere slabs of meat at the butcher, or animals on a farm. The boy next to Patsy was asked to show his fingernails, his hands, and then his  _ teeth _ , as if he was a horse. And after all that, he  _ still  _ wasn’t chosen. It was frightening, but it made Patsy feel indignant too.  
  


Once or twice someone stopped in front of her and Grace, admiring their expensive clothes and clean, neat hair. Each time they passed on though –  the first explaining quite kindly that she only had room for one little girl, and it was clear from the way the two of them were holding onto each other that they would rather not be separated. The second was less polite, and muttered about how ‘spoiled and sullen’ they looked as she passed them by. Patsy tried hard not to notice  them after that, staring around at what was going on in other rows instead to try and distract herself from the personal comments being made about her and her sister closer at hand.  
  


Grace didn’t like it either, holding tight to Patsy’s hand and shrinking against her as if she wanted to disappear altogether. She could feel her trembling a little, though she didn’t start crying again. If only Phyllis was here, she’d be able to cheer them up. She’d think of a game or a story to distract them, or at least put an arm around them both so they didn’t feel so lost...  
  


Suddenly Grace’s hand was snatched from hers. Patsy whipped round immediately, reaching for her sister, but it was too late. Grace was being lifted right off her feet and into the arms of a tall blonde woman.  
  


‘Hello my little angel, aren’t you just the sweetest-’  
  


‘ _Grace!_ You put her-’  
  


Neither of them managed to finish their sentence, because as Grace let out a wail of fright as she was pulled so unexpectedly away from Patsy. Her hands flailed out in shock at being picked up without warning by a stranger, and one of them connected with the woman’s cheekbone. There was a dull smacking sound as it hit, and the woman gave a gasp of outrage.  
  


‘ Oh! Oh you little-’  
  


She dropped Grace hastily to the floor and stepped back, clutching her only slightly reddened cheek.  
  


Grace was sobbing, terrified by the grabbing and now the shouting, her knees scraped from where she had landed on all fours, unable to keep her feet after being dropped so abruptly. Patsy helped her up and pulled her close into a hug, trying to reassure her even as the woman continued to shout.  
  


‘The little beast! She just _attacked_ me, punched me right in the face, the brat! I shall have a bruise. And here I am just trying to do these poor little evacuees a kindness!’  
  


Grace hadn’t _meant_ to hit her, she had just been startled and afraid and the movement had been instinctive. It was pure chance that it had connected with flesh rather than striking the empty air, but that didn’t seem to matter.  
  


There was a little bubble of shocked, empty space around them now. The boy with the knobbly knees had shuffled so far away that he was practically standing on the next child in their row, and all conversation had ceased in their vicinity, apart from the continued admonitions of their assailant.  
  


It didn’t take long for the nearest volunteer to notice and make her way over to them, hurrying straight for the shouting woman, rather than the sobbing children.  
  


‘ Ma’am? Is everything alright?’  
  


‘No it most certainly is not alright! That, that… _child_ just hit me!’  
  


‘ Oh no! Surely not? Which one was it?’  
  


‘ Her, over there’.  
  


The lady gestured vaguely in the direction of Grace and Patsy before launching right back into her tirade.  
  


‘She slapped me right across the face, when I was only trying to be kind! These awful, awful little cockneys, I’m really not sure they’re all right in the head. You know I didn’t want to believe the rumours, I really didn’t, but it seems they really are true. I feel quite upset by it. I’m not sure I can see my way to taking _any_ of them after this’.  
  


‘Now, don’t say that. A lot of the children are lovely, sweet little things, don’t let one bad apple spoil the bunch. Why don’t you go and talk to Sister Bernard over there? She has charge of a girls school, all very well brought up young ladies with impeccable manners. I’m sure she could pair you with a nice, calm child instead. _I’ll_ see to the other one, don’t you worry about that. I’m so sorry you had to go through such an upsetting incident’.  
  


‘ Perhaps I will. I’m going outside to take some air, but then I shall consider it. I tell you I’m still too upset to speak just now’.  
  


The woman clipped away on her high heels like an offended pony, still clutching her cheek as if Grace’s soft little hand had been made of stone. Once she was out of earshot the volunteer turned towards them, and Patsy’s heart sank.  
  


It was Miss  Richmond .  
  


Of course it was.  
  


She clearly recognised them as well, because her eyes widened even as her mouth pinched into a tight frown.  
  


‘ _ You! _ ’  
  


‘ Please, it was-’  
  


‘ I might have known you’d be the culprit! First you bully your poor little sister, and now this!’  
  


‘ No, Miss  Richmond you’ve got it wrong, it was an acci-’  
  


‘ Don’t you dare contradict me, that poor lady told me exactly what happened! I feel utterly sickened to think a little girl like you could be so  _ vicious’ _ .  
  


‘ It was Grace Miss  Richmond , but she didn’t mean to-’  
  


‘ And now you try to blame that poor baby? Look how much you’ve upset her! I won’t have it, I tell you, we will not put up with this behaviour.  
  


Sister Bernard! Sister Bernard, a word please!’  
  


Sister Bernard came over to join them, looking from Miss  Richmond to the distraught Patsy and Grace and back again.  
  


‘ Is there a problem here?’  
  


‘ There certainly is. I want to see to it that these two girls are billeted separately. Last night I witnessed a terrible bullying incident of the older one against her little sister, and this morning she has proved that she is violent as well as unkind. The good lady that she struck has been so distressed by her attack that she very nearly withdrew her offer to house any evacuee at all. If we leave them together I believe it will be severely to the detriment of the younger girl, if not through bullying and hitting, then through corruption with her bad influence. I have never seen the like from such a clearly well cared for child. I’m quite decided, I don’t want them housed together. Will you make sure of it Sister Bernard?’  
  


‘ No, Sister Bernard, please, it isn’t true! You  _ can’t _ !’  
  


Sister Bernard didn’t even look at her, her eyes not so much as flickering from Miss  Richmond as they spoke.  
  


‘Certainly, if you think it for the best. Single children are easier to place in any case. I shall try to see to it that the older girl is sent to someone who will be able to manage her, if she is as wild as you say. She’s not a St Agnes girl you know, we just offered to mind them for the journey. We would never allow such behaviour among _our_ pupils’.  
  


‘ Oh, I am quite certain of it! And here I thought the slum children would be the hardest to deal with. They’re little angels next to this one!’  
  


‘ Never mind Miss  Richmond , I shall oversee their case now. I’m going to take the littler girl to stand somewhere else now, and then-  


Oh merciful heaven, what was _that_?’  
  


‘ That’ was the sudden uproar and confusion of a small St Agnes girl, queasy from the bus ride and further unsettled by the crowds and unfamiliar situation, vomiting her breakfast bun all over the child in front of her.  
  


Both Sister Bernard and Miss  Richmond hurried away at once to help disentangle the two sobbing, screaming, sick covered children, without pausing to wrench Grace from her sister’s grip first and take her with them.  
  


Patsy let out a held breath and scrubbed a hand across her eyes, trying to pull herself together. The sick incident had been a miracle, turning everyone’s attention away from them and distracting Sister Bernard before they could be separated, but in a few minutes she would be back, and they couldn’t just stay here waiting for Grace to be taken away.  
  


Almost before the idea had fully formed in her mind, Patsy had decided. They wouldn’t be here when Sister Bernard came back, that was all. She would think they had been chosen and taken away while she was busy, but really they’d have run off, just the two of them.  
  


She looked around for an escape route, keeping both arms wrapped tightly around Grace all the time she had her eyes off her, in case anyone else tried to snatch her while she wasn’t looking. The front door was impossible - there were too many grown ups near it, and they’d have to walk right past Sister Bernard and the sick girl to get there. There was another door at the back though. Maybe they could get back outside that way? It was better than staying here, wherever it led.  
  


‘ Come on Grace, we have to go  _ now _ , before they come back’.  
  


‘ Go where?’  
  


‘ Just… Just away. You heard what that horrible lady said, they’re going to send us to different homes, then we’ll never see each other again’.  
  


‘ I don’t want to be all on my own!’  
  


‘ I know Gracie, nor do I. That’s why we need to run away now, before they remember and come to get us’.  
  


Grace nodded. There were still tears rolling down her cheeks, but she was making an obvious effort to stop crying and concentrate on where they were going, trudging determinedly along beside Patsy without complaint; even though she would normally have sat down and howled about the scraped knees until someone came and tended her, or bribed her to stop with a sugar lump.  
  


They had almost made it to the door when a new voice stopped them.  
  


‘ Where are you two going then? You can’t just wander around in here you know. You need to stay nicely in your line until you get chosen’.  
  


Thank goodness, it was Mrs Beavin, not Sister Bernard or Miss  Richmond . Patsy didn’t think she had been anywhere close by earlier to know about the separation plan, so she didn’t try to make a run for it. Instead, she turned and gave the woman the most convincing smile she could manage.  
  


‘ I’m sorry Mrs Beavin, my sister needs to visit the  WC. She’s desperate to go and she’s only little, she might not be able to hold it in much longer’.  
  


Her voice might have wobbled a _bit_ as she spoke, but maybe Mrs Beavin would just think it was always like that and wouldn’t notice.  
  


Mrs Beavin glanced at Grace’s  tear-stained face and sighed.  
  


‘ Oh very well, I can see the little pet is getting herself into a state over it. But do hurry up, won’t you? You don’t want to miss seeing all the nice families. The toilets are through there on the right. Have you got that dear? Right is  _ that  _ way’.  
  


Patsy was feeling too anxious even to be properly offended that Mrs Beavin thought she might not know her left and right. They were wasting precious seconds, and at any moment Sister Bernard or Miss  Richmond might be back.  
  


‘ Yes. Thank you. Come on Gr- come on Maud’.  
  


She dragged her  sister through the door as quickly as she could, breathing a sigh of relief when it closed behind them and they were finally out of sight of the main hall.  
  


As soon as they were inside, Grace pulled her hand free from Patsy’s and turned on her.  
  


‘ Why did you say I was Maud?’  
  


‘ Because then if anyone’s looking for us and they ask Mrs Beavin, she’ll give them the wrong name of course’.  
  


‘ But I don’t  _ want  _ to be Maud’.  
  


‘ Well of course you’re not going to be called Maud  _ really _ , I was just tricking her so we wouldn’t get split up’.  
  


As she spoke, Patsy was looking around the short corridor for another exit, but there didn’t seem to be one. On the right was the WC, just as Mrs Beavin had said, and a tiny kitchen a little further along. On the left there was a smaller, plainer door that looked like a cupboard.  
  


No way out.  
  


They were going to have to hide, then sneak out the front door after everyone else was gone. She took a couple of steps towards the WC, but then stopped. Sister Bernard might bring the two sick covered children through any minute and take them to get cleaned up, and of course she would head straight for the WC, they couldn’t hide in there.  
  


How long had it already been since Sister Bernard and Miss  Richmond had gone to deal with the children? A minute? Two? Not very long, but maybe long enough to have calmed the situation to the point where they could bring the children in here. If they stayed they would be caught for certain.  
  


They had to hide,  _ now _ .  
  


The WC was out, and the kitchen was no good either –  it didn’t have a door and there was nowhere inside for them to hide. But there was the cupboard.  
  


Patsy hurried over to it and gave the door a tug, afraid for a second that it would be locked, but thank goodness it opened easily.  
  


It was more of a small storage room than a cupboard really - there was a window high up on the wall that let in  golden early autumn sunshine, so it wasn’t too dark, and there were a few tables and folding chairs crammed in among the dusty boxes. It would do. No one would come looking for them here.  
  


Patsy let out a sigh of relief and sank down to sit on the floor, hardly pausing to think about the dust this time.  
  


'Do we have to live in a cupboard now?'  
  


‘ Shh Grace, we have to  _ whisper _ , or someone outside might hear us!’  
  


Grace scowled, but dropped her voice to the softest of whispers to match Patsy’s ‘ _Do_ we though?’  
  


'No not _live_. We're just hiding here for a little while'.  
  


'Then can we go home? I  _ want  _ to go home'.  
  


Home.  
  


It was such a tempting idea. Their own clean, comfortable bedroom, with all their books and toys and fresh clothes, proper food and a nice bathroom they didn’t have to queue up for.  
  


She thought she wouldn’t complain about having to mind Grace ever again, if only she could do it at home.  
  


But...  
  


‘We can't. How would we get all the way to London by ourselves? It’s miles and miles and _miles_ away. And even if we _did,_ Mama might just tell us off and then send us straight back to Sister Bernard. She wouldn’t listen if we tried to explain. Grown ups _never_ listen. No, we’ll just stay here until everyone else leaves, and then…'  
  


And then… And  _ then _ …  
  


Then...  _ what _ ?  
  


Then Matilda bear would summon her family of real, big bears to come and carry them back to their cave, where they’d live on honey and fish and play in the woods all day long?  
  


Of course not.  
  


_Then_ they’d be really, properly on their own with no one to look after them at all, not even just to bring them stale buns.  
  


Maybe they really _could_ go and live in the woods though? Not with the imaginary bears, but just the two of them? No one would find them there, and ‘The Jungle Book’ had made it sound quite good fun (alright, the tigers and snakes were scary, but there _weren’t_ any tigers or big snakes in this country, except in the zoo).  
  


It wasn’t too cold yet – they’d been alright with just their coats in the hall, and by the time it got to winter they’d probably have managed to build a hut to keep warm in, like Robinson Crusoe. They had provisions too – the apple and the gingerbread and rolos, _and_ the two barley sugars from Phyllis. When those ran out they could find nuts and berries, and maybe walk to a different town every now and again and earn pennies to buy buns. They didn’t have any matches or posies to sell like in stories, but perhaps they could dance or sing to get coins? Some people _did_ do that, Patsy had seen them.  
  


The trouble was that she didn’t really know how to dance properly  yet , and neither her nor Grace were particularly  _ good  _ at singing. Patsy’s voice wandered off from the tune of its own accord if she  got nervous , and Grace could never remember all the words  to anything more than the simplest little baby songs.  
  


The idea had seemed an excellent one for a moment, but the more she thought about it the more impossible it became. What would they do when it rained, or when they needed the WC? And it was all very well knowing that there were plenty of berries about, but that didn’t help if you weren’t sure which ones were safe to eat. Some kinds were poisonous, weren’t they? Besides, it had been scary enough sleeping in the hall, surrounded by grown ups and with Phyllis right there beside them; it would be much, much too scary to sleep outside by themselves...  
  


What _about_ Phyllis though? If they could only find her again, she’d help them. Maybe she would still be at the other hall, and they could get back to her, or at least find out where she had gone and follow her there. If she was with kind people, they might agree to take Patsy and Grace as well. And if not… if not then Phyllis would _still_ help them. They could hide in her room and sneak scraps to eat. No one would even need to know they were there.  
  


Yes.  
  


That’s what they’d do. As soon as everyone left the hall, she and Grace would sneak out and start walking back the way the bus had come. The journey had felt long, but it probably hadn’t been that far really – _everything_ felt long when you knew everyone else was looking at you and talking about you. It couldn’t be that hard to just keep following the road anyway, even if it took days and days. They might even find someone who would give them a lift in their car.  
  


It would all be alright, just as long as they could stay hidden for a bit longer.  
  


‘ We’ll go and find Phyllis. Won’t that be nice? We can all be together again. We just need to keep absolutely quiet and hidden now. Alright Grace?’  
  


Grace nodded solemnly, and for a while they sat in silence, both thinking about their coming reunion with their friend.  
  


After a couple of minutes they heard the hall door open and close, and two childish voices united in howling their misery as a grown up muttered something that was presumably meant to be soothing. Patsy guessed this was the sick children, being taken to get washed in the bathroom as she had predicted. She sat tensely all the time they were in there, but after another few minutes she heard them heading back out into the hall, their howls reduced to sniffles now they were clean. No one came near the cupboard or tried to get in.  
  


They were still safe, for now.  
  


‘ I’m  _ bored _ ’ .  
  


‘ Grace!  _ Whisper!’  
  
_

‘ _Alright!_ But I _am_ bored. Can we play Orlando?’  
  


Patsy groaned.  
  


‘ _Again?_ Aren’t you tired of that game yet?’  
  


Grace shook her head, her expression mulish.  
  


‘ I like Orlando best’.  
  


‘ Well, I don’t think we should play Orlando just now. You might forget to whisper and then we’d be caught’.  
  


‘ So what caaan I doooooo’.  
  


‘ Well… why don’t we explore a bit? There might be something interesting in one of these boxes’.  
  


Grace seemed unconvinced, but she came over to look when Patsy started poking through them in search of something that might keep a four year old entertained ( _quietly_ entertained) for however long they might be stuck here.  
  


The first box contained table cloths, the next bottles of polish and floor cleaner and a bundle of rags. The third was more promising - Christmas decorations.  
  


Patsy sat back and let her sister dig through this box, tangling herself in the paper chains and hanging little christmas tree ornaments from her ears as pretend earrings. Thus adorned, she rummaged further and seized eagerly on something deeper down, pulling hard to free it from the mess of other things.  
  


She had found a naked baby doll, half wrapped up in a faded tea towel. Given that it had been in the Christmas box, Patsy suspected it was meant to be the baby Jesus, but she let Grace play with it anyway. Mama would have said it was disrespectful, but Patsy decided that Jesus would understand and not mind about Grace playing with him like a normal baby. It might even make a nice change from being holy all the time.  
  


Patsy didn’t join in the game, even when Grace told her hopefully that she could be the  D addy if she liked. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but the distant sounds coming from the hall, and sat by the door straining to hear any hint that they had been missed.  
  


It would be safest to stay put in the cupboard until everyone else was gone, but eventually she could resist no longer. She left Grace whisper-crooning to her doll with strict instructions not to leave the cupboard  _ no matter what _ , and tiptoed very, very cautiously out into the corridor.  
  


She edged the door to the hall open the barest crack and peered through, her heart hammering in case Sister Bernard was standing right on the other side waiting to  _ get  _ her.  
  


She wasn’t.  
  


The hall was a bit emptier now, the ranks of children starting to thin out as more and more were chosen and taken away, but it was still far from safe. Still, no one seemed to be looking for them, so she didn’t think they’d been missed. Even Miss  Richmond seemed entirely occupied with other things. She was bending over a little boy who had started wailing piteously, his nose running right down into his mouth in a most off putting way. Miss  Richmond didn’t seem to know what to do about it. She made patting gestures over his head, but didn’t quite touch it, as if afraid he might be dirty. Well, he  _ was  _ dirty, but he was also very little and clearly frightened.  
  


Patsy watched an old lady volunteer step in and stoop to the crying child. _This_ lady gave him a hug and mopped him up in spite of his general griminess, then picked him up and carried him to one of the less ferocious looking villagers still in the hall. A man, probably around her own age with wire rimmed spectacles and corduroy trousers that were earth stained and faded at the knee, as if he’d come straight from working in his garden. They spoke earnestly for a few minutes, and at the end of it she handed the boy into the old man’s care and they left together.  
  


Patsy tore herself reluctantly away from the crack in the door then and hurried back to the cupboard. She wished they’d had a clipboard lady like  _ her _ , instead of Miss  Richmond . Maybe if they’d been with a grown up who listened, who hugged grubby children and helped them find homes with kind faced old men instead of making assumptions and telling them off, then everything could have happened differently.  
  


When she was safely back inside she realised that Grace was no longer playing with the Jesus doll. He was lying abandoned in an undignified pose, face down and bottom in the air; while Grace sat on the floor sucking her fingers mournfully.  
  


‘ Grace?’  
  


‘ You were  _ so long _ ’ .  
  


‘ Oh Gracie, I’m sorry. Were you frightened?’  
  


‘ No’.  
  


But she clung to Patsy when she sat down beside her and buried her face in her coat, snuffling a little.  
  


‘ Do you want me to read you Orlando?’  
  


A nod.  
  


‘ And can I have a ginger man?’  
  


‘ Well…I really want to save those. We might have to walk for ages and ages to find Phyllis, and we’ll get hungry then. Why don’t you suck on your barley sugar instead? And I’ll get Kitty out so he can listen to Orlando with you’.  
  


It was a blatant bribe, but an effective one. Grace rummaged in her pockets for her barley sugar while Patsy made them a little nest to sit in out of the table cloths and an old cardigan that Grace had found at the bottom of one of the boxes. It wasn’t as comfortable as the dens they had sometimes made at home with pillows and blankets, but it was much cosier than sitting on the floor.  
  


They read Orlando cover to cover three times, reaching the end and then turning right back to the beginning and reading it again until Patsy felt ready to throw the book right out of the window if she had to say one more thing about Orlando the improbable, car driving cat and his silly family going through the same gentle adventures over and over.  
  


‘ Shall we try something different now? I could read you a bit of  _ my  _ book, or tell you Cinderella or Snow White?’  
  


‘ No, Orlando’.  
  


‘ _ Again?’  
  
_

‘ Orlando  _ please’.  
  
_

Patsy couldn’t think of anything else to do, so, reluctantly, she complied. Even on the fourth reading, Grace looked very hard at the pictures as if she was seeing them for the first time, stroking each cat gently with the tip of her finger on every single page. She whispered the words along with Patsy, adding little mews and the occasional ‘oh, naughty Tinkle!’ or ‘fishy fishy’ for good measure. Eventually she grew quiet and still, lulled into sleep by the soothing familiarity of the story and the relative comfort of their tablecloth nest.  
  


After a while Patsy’s eyelids grew heavy too, but she couldn’t go to sleep. If someone came towards the cupboard they’d have to move quickly and crouch behind a table out of sight, and she needed to stay alert and keep listening for the slightest hint that they were in danger. She tried reading her own book to distract her, but even Dimsie’s boarding school adventures couldn’t hold her attention properly. The words kept slipping out of focus and her head nodded a little over its pages.  
  


It had been a long, uncomfortable night, and the heap of musty old tablecloths now felt cosier than the softest mattress in the world. Her eyes closed once... twice... and she was asleep.  
  


And then she wasn’t.  
  


There was someone outside their cupboard.  
  


The handle was turning-  
  


Patsy sprang to her feet, disentangling herself as best she could from the tablecloths while she looked wildly around for a place to hide. But it was too late, the door was open and there was a lady standing there, looking right at her, it was  _ too late _ .  
  


‘ Oh my! What are you two doing in here?’  
  


There was a lump in her throat making it hard to talk, but she had to say something, anything to explain their presence...  
  


‘ We- we came to look for the WC, and then… um…’  
  


But she couldn’t think of any reason why they would have gone looking for the WC and stayed in a cupboard instead, and the sentence trailed off into a sad little squeak that was half sob, half gulp.  
  


‘ Oh dear, you poor little poppet. Don’t worry cariad, you’re not in trouble, I just want to help you. Can you tell me why you were hiding? Did you get frightened of all the crowds?’  
  


Patsy peered up through her lashes and recognised the old lady from the hall, the one who had looked after the little boy and found him a home, and hadn’t seemed a bit cross that he was grubby and snotty and making a fuss. She seemed kind –  much kinder than Miss  Richmond  or Sister Bernard.  
  


And she _had_ said they weren’t in trouble...  
  


‘No… well, a bit. But not _mostly_ that’.  
  


‘ What was it mostly then pet?’  
  


‘Miss Richmond\- Miss Richmond said they were going to split us up. She said I was a bad influence but I didn’t do what she said, I _promise_ I didn’t. Only she wouldn’t _listen,_ and they were going to make Grace and me go to different places and we _can’t_ , we have to stay together!’  
  


It poured out in a rush, and Patsy put her hands over her mouth when she had finished, as if she might be able to cram the words back in. She shouldn’t have said anything about them getting separated. This lady might not have known before, but now she did, maybe she’d make sure they really were split up after all…  
  


But the lady didn’t rush out to fetch Miss  Richmond and hand them over. She nodded very seriously instead, and continued to talk in the same calm, sympathetic tone as before.  
  


‘ That must have been very upsetting for you both. I’m sure Miss  Richmond meant well, but it sounds like she didn’t give you a fair hearing, is that right?’  
  


Patsy nodded.  
  


‘ Well, why don’t you tell  _ me  _ what happened? I promise to listen to everything you say and not jump to conclusions’.  
  


‘ But what if Miss  Richmond comes while I’m telling you and makes us go with her? She was really, really cross’.  
  


‘ I think your Miss  Richmond has gone now, almost everyone has. There’s just a few of us locals left clearing up out there, so you’re quite safe. No one will take you away if you’re with me anyway, but we can shut the door if you like, so we’re hidden again?’  
  


‘ ...alright’.  
  


The lady gave her a warm smile and did as she had said, coming right into the little room and shutting the door behind her so no one could see them.  
  


She sat down on the floor, not fussing a bit about the dust, and patted the floorboards beside her.  
  


‘ Now then, tell me what happened’.  
  


Patsy did so, a little haltingly at first, but growing more confident as the lady turned out as good as her word, not interrupting or looking a bit angry or disbelieving as the story came out. She told all about the accidental slap, and Miss  Richmond assuming it had been her, about being called a bully and a bad influence, and then the plan to separate them. Then she explained about hiding, and finally the plan to find Phyllis and stay with her instead so they could keep together.  
  


When it was done the lady was quiet for a minute, taking it all in.  
  


‘ It sounds like you’ve had a very difficult day’.  
  


‘ Are you going to split us up?’  
  


‘ No sweetheart. It sounds like a big misunderstanding, and I don’t think what happened was your fault at all. I’m afraid we probably can’t manage to put you with your friend Phyllis, but I don’t see any need to stop you and your sister being together’.  
  


‘ Do you  _ promise _ ?’  
  


‘ I promise. No one else even needs to know the idea was ever discussed, it can be our secret. Now, let's get you two sorted out shall we? I’m afraid all the families have gone already, but we’ll think of something, don’t you worry. Can you tell me your names?’  
  


‘ I’m Patsy. That’s my sister Grace sleeping over there’.  
  


‘ Well Patsy, it’s lovely to meet you, and Grace too! What lovely names you both have. My name is Mrs  Parry , but you can call me Glynis if you like. Here, why don’t I carry that case for you?’  
  


Once the books and Kitty had been returned to the case and Grace had been roused and convinced they were safe to go with Mrs  Parry , they returned to the hall together.  
  


There were only two volunteers left, buttoning up their coats and pinning hats into place ready to leave, but they both turned to stare at them as Mrs  Parry opened the back door.  
  


‘ I’m afraid we have a couple of little lost lambs here! This is Patsy and Grace. Would either of you be free to take them door to door? There’s a few families we were expecting that didn’t turn up, I’m sure one of them will have room for these two. I’d go myself, but I really should get home to my granddaughter, she’ll be wanting her tea by now’.  
  


The taller of the two shook her head quickly ‘Not me Glyn, my Rhys will be home any minute and I need to get his supper on. I haven’t time to be traipsing the streets with waifs and strays’.  
  


They all looked at the other woman, who sighed and grumbled for a moment before conceding.  
  


‘ Oh very well, I suppose I’d better do it then. It had just better not take too long, that’s all. My feet are killing me already’.  
  


‘ There you are girls! Miss Bowen will take you to find a new home, and you’ll be sitting down to supper before you know it’.  
  


Then to the lady:  
  


‘ Thanks Enid. I’d try Mrs Griffi n first if I were you, she loves children and I’m sure she’d be more than happy to take both of them. I know she planned to be here, but I expect her hip’s been playing up again and she couldn’t manage the walk’.  
  


Miss Bowen muttered something that  _ might  _ have been agreement, and put a hand on each girl’s shoulder to steer them out the hall. Patsy looked back at  Mrs P arry over her shoulder anxiously. She wished they could have stayed with her instead, she seemed so much friendlier than sour Miss Bowen.  
  


‘ Come along then. Though I don’t see why you couldn’t just stay put like all the others’.  
  


Miss Bowen walked quickly, her heels tapping hard on the pavement as if she was stomping in temper, though she was a grown up, so surely she couldn’t be. Her pace was _so_ fast that it was hard for their shorter legs to keep up, until they were practically running along in her wake.  
  


When she stopped suddenly in the road, Patsy very nearly ran right into her legs, and Grace kept going a few steps before realising they’d stopped and coming back, bewildered.  
  


Miss Bowen was waving at someone coming down the lane towards them, leading a horse with a cart behind him.  
  


‘ Enid? Is that you? Just the girl I was hoping to meet!’  
  


‘ Oh Ber t ie, were you really?’  
  


Miss Bowen didn’t look at all cross anymore. She was smiling up at Bertie and giggling a little, even though he hadn’t said anything funny.  
  


Bertie was smiling too, his ears turning bright red as he spoke.  
  


‘ I was Enid. I just stopped by your house, but you weren’t there. I was hoping you might agree to come to mine for a spot of supper. Mam would love to have you, and our Sarah’s keen to see you again. And- and me too of course’.  
  


‘ Oh what a shame, I’d love to come of course, but it would be much too late to walk home after…’  
  


‘ Well, I’ll give you a lift back, nothing easier. We’ll be able to talk on the way’.  
  


‘ Oh, go on then!’  
  


Miss Bowen’s cheeks had gone as pink as Bertie’s ears now, and Patsy looked from one to the other, perplexed.  
  


They seemed to have forgotten all about her and Grace.  
  


She wondered whether they should just sidle away and go off by themselves to find Phyllis after all, but the idea was less tempting than it had been. It would take hours and hours to walk back to the first hall, if they could even remember the way. And what if no one knew where Phyllis was when they got there? Besides, a kind old lady with a sore hip who loved children didn’t sound too bad.  
  


She gave a little cough, and Miss Bowen glanced down at her, the girlish blush fading as she remembered her charges.  
  


‘ I just need to drop these two off with Mrs Griffi n first. Could we go there on the way?’  
  


Bertie shook his head, looking disappointed.  
  


‘ I wish I could Een, but I’m late as it is and Mrs Griffi n lives right at the wrong end of the village. Mam’ll have my guts for garters if supper’s ruined waiting for me again. Maybe we should just put it off until another night, if you have things you need to do?’  
  


‘No. No, _let's_ do it tonight, I’m so looking forward to it now. I’ll just bring the girls along with us. There’ll be someone on the way who can take them’.  
  


She turned an insincere smile on Patsy and Grace and said with sugary sweetness:  
  


‘How would you girls like a horsey ride?’


	10. Delia

Delia felt a bit wistful as she stood in Marged’s garden and watched Nain walk away without her. She still wanted to go and see the evacuees _so_ _badly_ that she had very nearly forgotten to say ‘good morning Mrs Pryce and thank you very much for having me’ when Marged’s Mam opened the door.

Even now a tiny, rebellious part of her wondered if she could still pretend that there had been a mix up and she wasn’t staying to play after all. Then she could sneak after Nain and go to the hall by herself, without anyone ever having to know...

That idea lasted only as long as it took for Mrs Pr y ce to shout back into the house for her daughter however, because a moment later Marged herself came barrelling down the front steps and threw her arms around Delia, and then there was no more time for mutinous thoughts.

‘You’re here, you’re _here_! Mam said you were coming over some time this morning but I’ve been waiting for _ages_ and I thought maybe you changed your mind’.

‘ Of course I didn’t! I had to help Nain build the shelter first, that’s all’.

‘ Oh yes, we have one of those. Well, we will do soon. It’s still all in bits in the back garden at the moment. Anyway nevermind that. Come up to my room’!

Marged grabbed her hand and hurried her upstairs, talking excitedly all the time. Her house was bigger than Nain’s, but not as interesting, because _they_ didn’t have a lovely little attic bedroom with funny slopey walls and beams you could draw on like Delia’s. Marged and her brother just had plain, ordinary sorts of rooms, and they weren’t allowed into the attic at all because it didn’t have any proper floor, and their dad said they might accidentally put a foot right through the ceiling of the room below.

Marged didn’t always do as she was told though, and once or twice she had taken Delia up there anyway, when there were no grown ups nearby. It had been brilliant fun, because they had to walk along the beams where the floor was strongest so it was like doing a tightrope, and there were heaps of boxes of old junk to look through (well, the grown ups called it junk - she and Marged called it secret treasure, and some of it made excellent props for games if you didn’t get too fussed by the occasional spider).

The attic had been their favourite ever place to play, until Marged’s big brother  Harri had told them about the Ghost Spot and ruined everything.

The Ghost Spot was a bit of different coloured ceiling in Marged’s room, and  Harri insisted it was the sign of a troubled spirit who haunted the attic. He said that once upon a time, before their family moved into the house, a little girl used to live there who liked to go up and play in the attic when her parents weren’t watching her (‘an annoying little frog face girl just like YOU Marged’). One day she had stumbled and fallen half way through the ceiling of the room that now belonged to Marged, and couldn’t get out. Her parents tried to pull her free, but she was stuck tight, so she just had to stay there, hanging through the ceiling with her head in the dark, dusty attic until she  _ died _ .

‘ They only managed to pull her out once she’d withered away to a sad little skeleton child, nothing but bones dangling through a hole. And they might have taken the bones away now, but the little ghost girl is still here Marged, waiting to float down through that bit of ceiling at night and  _ kill  _ you’.

It had scared them into fits when he had first told them, and they not only never went back into the attic, it was days before Marged would even step inside her bedroom, let alone sleep in there. 

Delia looked for the different coloured patch as they went into Marged’s room now, but she couldn’t see it.

‘ Where’s the Ghost Spot gone?’

‘ The what?’

Marged answered absently, already rummaging through her drawers in search of something.

‘ That bit on your ceiling that was a different colour’.

‘Oh _that_. That was just a damp patch from when we had a hole in the roof and it leaked through the ceiling. Mam and Dad painted over it for me ages ago. You didn’t _really_ think it was a ghost did you? Aren’t you a funny little thing!’

Delia scowled at her friend’s back. She didn’t like being called a ‘funny little thing’ - certainly not by another child, even if she _was_ older.

‘ I didn’t say I thought it  _ was  _ a ghost, just that  Harri called it that’.

‘ Did he? I’m afraid it was all so long ago I don’t really remember. Anyway, I was still very little at the time. I wouldn’t bother about silly ghost stories now I’m ten’.

It hadn’t been _that_ long ago - only last Christmas. Marged had been much older then than Delia was now, and yet she had been the most afraid of the ghost girl. She had cried and refused to go back into her bedroom all _week_.

Their Mam was furious when she found out what all the fuss was about, and made  Harri sleep in there instead. She told him it served him right for telling silly stories when he complained bitterly about the lack of space and the girly flowery wallpaper in Marged’s room.

Marged might have moved into  Harri ’s room permanently after that, except that by the end of the first week  Harri had had enough, and bribed her with half his Christmas chocolate to swap back. She took the chocolate, but still wouldn’t budge until he absolutely promised that he had just made up the ghost to tease her.

The next day Marged had claimed she had moved because  Harri ’s room smelled of sweaty socks, and that she hadn’t ever really been scared anyway, she was just teasing him back; but Delia had been there when they made the chocolate deal, so she knew the truth.

She very nearly pointed this out (which would inevitably have led to an argument and maybe even to them falling out, because Marged hated anything that might make her look silly); but fortunately it was at that moment that Marged located the thing she had been rummaging for and whirled back around, a huge grin on her face.

‘ _Look_ what my aunt sent me for my birthday! Aren’t they splendid?’

Delia peered into the box eagerly, and then thought Marged must be playing a joke. There was no fabulous new toy in the box –  nothing very interesting at all.

‘ _ Stockings?  _ But stockings aren’t a  _ birthday present _ , that would be just like getting new school socks’.

Marged pouted, pulling the box back towards her and stroking the stockings lovingly, as if soothing an insulted pet.

‘ These aren’t just any old stockings, silly. They’re the very best silk, all the way from Paris. Mam said they must have cost an absolute fortune, but Aunt Rachel said it was only right that I should get a pair now that I’m a woman, and that a girl’s first pair of stockings is a right of passage, so they should be something a bit special’.

‘But ten _isn’t_ a woman. You have to be at least thirteen, or even _older_ ’.

‘Oh Delia, you’re such a little kid still. Being _ten_ isn’t what makes me a woman. It’s- _you know_ ’.

But Delia _didn’t_ know.

She tried to think about all the women she knew, and what mysterious thing might have the power to turn a ten year old into one of them. Marged didn’t look a bit like  M am, or any of her aunts or teachers or  M am’s friends. She looked just like a little girl, the same as always. 

She must have seen Delia’s baffled expression, because she clapped her hands together and crowed:

‘You _don’t_ know do you? Oh bless. Well I suppose it’s not really your fault. I probably didn’t know either when I was your age. But don’t worry, you’ll learn when you’re bigger’.

Delia scowled. Whatever it was that made you a woman, she wished it wouldn’t, because it was starting to look as if Marged wasn’t going to be much fun anymore. She had always been a _bit_ bossy, but at least she used to play proper games, and had never treated Delia quite so much like a baby before.

‘ Marged,  _ what? Tell  _ me!’

‘ Oh alright, I’ll let you in on the secret, but you mustn’t tell. I’ve started my monthlies!’

‘ Your... monthlies?’

‘ Don’t you know what that means?’

‘ Yes, I do’.

She didn’t.

Not really anyway. She had heard  M am use the term before, but she never explained what it actually  _ meant _ , just said she’d know when she was older.

‘ No you don’t. It’s a thing that happens to girls when they turn into women. F i rst you get this pain in your tummy, here’.

She indicated a spot that was much lower than where you got tummy ache if you ate too many sweets, or played the spinning game too much.

‘ It’s the worst pain in the world, worse than getting kicked. Worse than getting  _ caned _ . And that’s not all, because then you start to  _ bleed’. _

‘ Like a nose bleed?’

‘Much, much worse than a nose bleed. And it doesn’t come from your nose either. You have all this pain and blood so it feels like you’ve been _stabbed_ , and it lasts for days and days, just hurting and bleeding the whole time, but you aren’t allowed to let anyone know when you have it- _especially_ boys, and you still have to go to school and church and do all your normal things. That happens _every single month_ , and that’s how you know you’re a woman’.

Delia stared at her, appalled. Why had  M am never told her about this? Or Nain? She imagined herself doubled over in pain, blood gushing out of her belly button as if someone had stuck a knife in it.

Being a woman sounded  _ horrible _ .

‘ Oh  _ Marged _ ’ .

She found she wasn’t really angry with Marged anymore. If she was having to go through that every month, it was no wonder she was acting a bit funny now. She couldn’t think what to say to make her friend feel better, but she gave her hand a little sympathetic squeeze.

‘ Yes, it’s pretty awful. Until you experience it for yourself you just can’t understand how bad it feels or how much it hurts. But us women have to keep our chins up and bear it bravely’.

‘Poor, poor you… at least you have your _lovely_ posh stockings though’.

It felt a poor sort of consolation, especially as Delia still didn’t think much of stockings as a birthday present, even if they were silk and from Paris, so she added:

‘ and- and you can have one of my jelly babies if you like. You can have lots. Even the red ones’.

Marged smiled bravely at her.

‘ Oh thanks Delia. I’d like that’.

She took a handful from the proffered bag, her fingers coming out coated with powdered sugar and crammed with sweets. She’d taken more than half of them, but Delia didn’t object. It was a very small thing compared to having to go through Monthlies.

For a while Marged was too absorbed in munching her way through the jelly babies to say anything else. They sat in silence while Marged ate sweet after sweet, and Delia nibbled one or two from what was left in the bag, just to keep her company. Not too many though, because she didn’t want to run out so soon.

She waited until Marged was licking the sugar from her fingers before asking the question that was worrying her most.

‘ Marged?’

‘ What?’

‘Do you think I’ll have monthlies when _I’m_ ten?’

Marged had said it was something that happened to girls when they became women, but surely it couldn’t happen to _all_ girls. It would be too awful, and someone would have said if it was going to happen to her.

Wouldn’t they?

‘ I doubt it’.

She breathed out, relieved for just a second, until her friend added:

‘I’m especially mature for my age – most girls start later. You’ll get them eventually though, and my cousin says they’re even _worse_ if you start when you’re older’.

‘ Oh’.

‘ Let's not talk about it anymore. Shall we go out and play? I only wanted to come up here to show you my stockings, but you’ve seen them now and there’s not much to do indoors. Anyway, I think some of the girls from school are meant to be meeting up soon, and Mam said we could take a picnic lunch and stay out’.

Delia was feeling a bit too shaky to want to go out to play. She would rather have Nain come and give her a cuddle and reassure her that she wouldn’t have to have monthlies really… But Nain was off at the hall looking after the evacuee children, and who knew what other terrifying revelations Marged might have waiting for her if they stayed in here?

‘ Alright, lets go...’

Mrs Pr y ce looked just the same as ever when they entered the kitchen - no tell tale signs of sadness that her daughter had this terrible affliction, just a slightly distracted smile over her bucket of soapy water.

‘ Don’t come in girls, the floor’s wet. I’ve left a packed lunch out on the hall table for you, don’t forget to pick it up on your way out. Marged, you make sure you keep an eye on Delia, won’t you? And pay attention to the church clock as well. I want you home by six at the latest, do you hear?’

‘ Yes  M am!’

It took them a while to find the other girls from Marged’s class. In fact, there didn’t seem to be  _ any  _ children out playing - the streets were quiet and empty. They passed a half drawn hopscotch grid, the chalk left abandoned beside the last unfinished square. It was almost eerie, as if everyone had been snatched suddenly away in the middle of their games. There even seemed to be less grown ups about than usual, just a few ladies scrubbing their doorsteps, or heading in the direction of the shops.

Delia shuddered and hurried past, keeping close to Marged as they wandered along street after street.

At last they turned down a little lane and Marged climbed onto a stile to peer over into the field beyond, then let out a whoop of triumph.

‘ I found them, look!’

It wasn’t just the girls from Marged’s class. There was a huge gaggle of children gathered there - all different ages, from a couple of little four and five year olds tagging along with older siblings, all the way up to great big teenagers of thirteen or fourteen. Delia didn’t know most of them, but she spotted  Harri among the group, and a few girls nearer her own age that she had been friendly with on previous visits. She waved, but they didn’t notice her, too absorbed in whatever they were talking about.

‘ What do you think’s going on?’

‘ Let’s go and find out’.

Marged swung herself over the stile and ran towards the others, calling out as she went.

Hi, Nerys! Beca! What’s happened?’

‘Marged, _there_ you are. We’re talking about the evacuees of course. Did you forget they’re arriving today?’

Of  _ course _ ! She should have realised it at once. Everyone else was bound to be as excited as Delia was; no wonder they were all gathered to talk about the children that were probably already there in the village hall right that minute.

Such a crowd might have made her feel shy on another day, especially when she didn’t know most of them very well, but she couldn’t help chipping in with her little bit of news once she heard that.

‘ My Nain is helping out at the hall where they’re all arriving, so she’ll get to see them all! I wanted to go too, but I wasn’t allowed’.

‘ Who are you then pipsqueak?’

This was a tall girl of twelve or so, with stubby blonde plaits and a gap between her front teeth. She looked vaguely familiar, but not as someone Delia had ever spoken to –  she was a proper big girl, much too old to bother with the likes of her normally.

‘ I’m Delia Busby, Marged’s friend’.

Marged chipped in quickly, talking right over the word ‘friend’ and saying instead:

‘ She’s just my neighbour’s little granddaughter, come to stay for the war. I’m minding her this afternoon as a favour’.

This was such a huge betrayal that Delia’s mouth dropped right open, and she couldn’t even speak to defend herself as the other big girls nodded along to Marged’s version of things.

The blonde one gave a syrupy sort of smile, like the kind a grown up gives to a toddler, and said ‘oh, so  _ you’re  _ a little evacuee yourself then!’

‘ I’m  _ not _ . I’m just staying with my Nain for a bit. I’ve stayed with her lots of times!’

She looked to Marged for support, but Marged was standing beside the older girls now, nodding along at everything they said and looking up at them with big eyes, like a puppy desperate to be patted. She gave Delia a pitying smile, the mirror image of the one on the blonde girl’s face.

‘ Yes, but this is different. You don’t live here properly like we do’.

‘Why are you taking _her_ side, Marged? You’re being horrid!’

‘I’m not being horrid, but Mona’s right. You _are_ sort of an evacuee. Don’t worry though, I’m sure no one will make you feel bad about it. You’re Welsh after all, so it’s sort of different’.

‘ Yeah, don’t start boo hooing over it or anything pipsqueak. We know you’re not like  _ them _ ’ .

Delia decided that she couldn’t stand Mona, even though Marged seemed very keen on her. She wished they could stand with Beca and Nerys instead - they were much nicer than these older girls. But as soon as Mona had started talking to her, Marged had sidled away from her old friends and towards the blonde girl and her little gang, and was now fixed determinedly beside them.

Delia scowled up at Mona, and might have said something  back , but just then everyone’s attention was drawn swiftly away from her as a little trio of boys vaulted over the stile and came running over.

‘We’ve actually _seen_ them. The London kids!’

‘ You’ve never!’

‘ We have! Robert and Dylan and me. We went to hang around outside the hall and got a good look at them all going in, until some old witch chased us away. Dafydd and Mal were there too. They ran off the other way when we started getting chased, but they’ll back us up alright’.

‘ What were they like?’

‘ Were they as bad as everyone says?’

‘ _ Worse _ ’ .

‘ Did you see many fights?’

‘ Did they have fleas?’

‘ Did they have scabies?’

‘ Did they have  _ tails _ ?’

This last was from a girl of about four, who was gazing up at the older boys in scandalised delight.

_Delia_ didn’t feel delighted.

She had thought the others were all excited to hear about London, like she was; but they seemed to be thinking of the evacuees as some kind of monsters. It felt horrible, like they were actually talking about a proper friend of hers (about Sara even), and every one of them seemed to agree.

What if they were right, and the evacuees really were awful? The children’s questions echoed the kind of things Mam had said to her on the bus (well, not the tails, but being rude and having fleas). Surely they couldn’t  _ all  _ be completely wrong about all of it?

Were all her books and stories about life in London just that? Nothing but stories?

She didn’t want to listen to the boys anymore, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

‘We saw _heaps_ of fights. They could hardly go ten seconds without fighting! And the girls are worse than the boys. I saw one of them bite another one until she was bleeding!’

‘So did I! I saw lots doing that! And they _all_ have nits, so they have to have all their hair shaved off, only it doesn’t work and you can see the nits crawling all over their scalps. It was so gross!’

‘ Yeah! And the only words they know how to say are swear words! They just shout them all the time, so much that their tongues have gone totally black’.

‘ What? That doesn’t really happen-’

‘ It does if you swear enough. You don’t know, but we saw them. Black like they’d been chewing coal, scout’s honour’.

‘You’re _not_ a scout!’

‘ Well no, but they  _ were  _ all the same!’

‘ Yeah Rob’s right. And the grown ups couldn’t control them at all, they just had to herd them around with sharp sticks, like wild animals!’

‘ They shouldn’t be allowed to come here if they’re like that! It’s not safe - they’ll hurt someone!’

‘ That’s what we thought. We shouted at them to go back to London because we don’t want them here, but that’s when their old nun lady started throwing rocks at us and we had to  run for it ’.

‘ Oh wow, that was so  _ brave _ ’ .

It seemed some of the older ones didn’t agree with this last remark. A few were frowning and muttering as the stories got wilder and wilder, and at last Beca spoke up.

‘I think you’re making it all up! A nun would never throw rocks at you, she wouldn’t be allowed because it would go against the bible. Anyway, your tongue _doesn’t_ go black if you swear. How would that even work?’

Beca’s words seemed to break the spell a little, and quite a few children that had been hanging onto every word in slack jawed astonishment began to glance at each other sheepishly, and mutter that they’d known it was rubbish all along.

‘ You little toe rags! You had half these silly kids believing you!’

Marged’s brother  Harri shouted, but he was laughing at the same time, and clapping the boys who had been telling the stories on the backs, as if he was congratulating them on having everyone fooled.

‘ So tell us what it was  _ really  _ like then. If you even went to see them at all’.

The boys shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

‘We did go for real, honest injun. But maybe they weren’t _quite_ as bad as we said…’

‘ Very  _ nearly  _ as bad’.

‘ I did hear one of them swear, and a few of the littler kids had shaved heads. Only the boys though’.

‘Didn’t you see any fights at _all_?’

‘ No… but I bet we would have if we didn’t get chased off. There really  _ was  _ a fierce nun who came after us. She came right at the end with all these toffee nosed little girls, and she had a face like an old boot’.

‘ I bet she didn’t throw rocks at you though’.

‘ She would have! Only we ran away before she had the chance’.

‘ Yeah sure she would have. You kids are pathetic. Let's leave this lot and do something more interesting. Are you coming Marged?’

‘ Yes please! Oh, but I have to bring Delia along too. Is that alright?’

Mona glanced at Delia as if she’d forgotten all about her, then shrugged.

‘ If you must. You’ll have to keep up though pipsqueak’.

‘I’m _not_ a pip-’

But Mona and Marged and the rest of their little gang were already walking away, and Delia had to hurry to catch up or get left behind.

‘ What shall we do now?’

‘ Shall we go to the hall ourselves and see if we can see the evacuees coming out?’

Mona pulled a face.

‘Bother the evacuees. I don’t see why everyone’s so obsessed with them, they’re just a lot of stupid city kids. No, let's do something _interesting_ ’.

‘ My sister has a fashion magazine we could borrow. She won’t mind as long as I put it back - well, she won’t know anyway’.

‘Urgh, Bea, your mother’s Simplicity Sewing pattern catalogues _do not count_ as a fashion magazine’.

‘It isn’t! She has a copy of _Vogue_ ’.

‘ She’s never!’

‘ She has too, I’ve looked at it when she’s not home. I know just where she keeps it’.

‘You can _really_ get us the latest Vogue?’

‘ Well, not the  _ latest  _ latest, but it’s from last month, so it’s practically brand new. You all wait round the back and I’ll run in and fetch it’.

Mona nodded assent to this, and Bea looked so delighted that you’d have thought it was her birthday _and_ Christmas _and_ she’d just found half a crown on the ground, all at once.

The other girls seemed to treat Mona with almost as much deference as Marged did; looking to her at every turn before they expressed approval or disapproval of anything, as if they didn’t have any thoughts of their own. It was like they were all little puppets on strings, nodding along at the slightest twitch of Mona’s fingers.

Delia wished she could cut Marged’s strings so she could have her old friend back and they could go off together, just the two of them, but it was no use. Marged wouldn’t even look at her now.

When they reached Bea’s house, Mona lounged casually against the garden wall while the others gathered around her in a tight huddle. Marged was on the outer edge, but hanging onto every word and attempting to imitate every look, clearly determined to be included. She seemed to be perfectly happy to be a puppet.

Delia stood off to one side by herself, feeling fed up and forgotten. She scuffed the toe of her shoe idly against the ground and wondered when they could stop talking about clothes and film stars and actually _play_ something. She kept expecting them to get bored of their fashion conversation and start doing whatever mysterious, fascinating things she felt sure older girls _must_ do at some time, but they didn’t. They just went on and on and _on_ about the cut of this dress, or the fabric of that shirt.

Was it the monthlies that did this to you? Once you had them, did you stop caring about interesting things like books and playing and adventures, and start thinking just about clothes? Maybe it was because they had to keep buying new things when their old ones got covered in blood, so they became obsessed with it.

It must cost a _lot_ of money, being a woman.

She wanted to ask Marged about it, but there was no way to do that without the others hearing her, and Mona would definitely call her pipsqueak again and probably laugh at her. She tried edging over while the older girls were in deep discussion, tugging on Marged’s sleeve and whispering that they should go off together and have lunch soon. Marged just brushed her hands away and hissed at her to eat the picnic now if she was so starving, but not to keep pestering.

‘ _Fine,_ but you just see if I come to play with you again’.

‘ _ Fine’ _ .

The picnic was a welcome distraction from her boredom, but only because it gave her something to do, rather than because she was enjoying the food. Eating on her own made it all seem plainer and more miserable than it normally would have - even the jam tart had lost its savour. Marged didn’t seem to care a bit that it was long past lunch time, and her portion stayed untouched in the tea towel Mrs Pr y ce had wrapped it in that morning. It was tempting to eat that too, just for a few more minutes of activity, but she settled for sipping listlessly at the large bottle of lemon barley water.

The afternoon dragged on interminably.

Delia played a miserable, gridless version of hopscotch all on her own, trying to imagine Sara hopping alongside her. It was more difficult than normal, because she kept getting interrupted by screeches of laughter and Mona’s commanding tones insisting that this or that thing was ‘ _hideous_ ’ and whichever girl had dared suggest otherwise had absolutely _no_ taste.

About a hundred years after this, Mona finally closed the magazine with a sigh, handing it back to Bea and stretching. Marged stretched too, giving a great big fake yawn as Mona gave a real one, and Delia gave her a withering look.

It was a very _good_ withering look, with an eye roll and a raised brow (well, it _felt_ raised, she couldn’t see if it actually was or not), and it was almost disappointing that no one was looking her way to appreciate it.  


For just a moment it seemed that the ordeal might be over, that the group would disperse now, or else start doing something more interesting.

But no.

A pale, pinched looking girl with hair cut to a severe line just below her ears suggested that they should give each other makeovers to look like the ladies in Vogue, and much to Delia’s disgust, this idea was met with general enthusiasm. The girl ran home to fetch her ‘makeup kit’, which turned out to consist of a piece of charcoal that looked as if it had been picked out of a fireplace, a little tin of water colour paints, and a tube of lipstick so nearly empty that they all had to lick their fingers and twist them round inside the casing to get even the slightest smear of  pink to come out.

Even so, the lipstick was passed around with great appreciation - first to Mona, then the girl who had brought it out, and then the others, one by one. Marged got it last of all, but she didn’t seem to mind a bit and received the tube with all the reverence of a pilgrim handling holy relics in a church. They experimented with the paints next, brushing drippy colour onto their cheeks and over their eyelids, though the colours looked too bright, and the paint was too wet and ran all over the place, not like real makeup at all.

By the time they were drawing wobbly black charcoal lines up the backs of their legs and Marged was proclaiming loudly that she had real silk stocking at home - ‘and I’ll let you try them on one day if you like Mona. Just you though, because they’re ever such expensive ones and I’d hate for anything to happen to them’ - Delia had given up completely.

She lay down, stretched full length on the scruffy garden lawn, and stared up at the sky. For the first few minutes she tried searching for interesting pictures or patterns in the uncompromisingly shapeless clouds, but even that felt like too much effort now. It was as if sheer boredom had caused her brain to rust and seize up, so her thoughts were sluggish and she couldn’t be bothered with anything at all, not even Sara. She just stared unseeingly at the sky and wished six o’clock would hurry up so she could go  _ home _ .

‘ What’s happened to that kid? Has she  _ died _ ?’

One of the girls whose names Delia didn’t know had noticed her lying on the floor at last, and was pointing with a charcoal-smeared finger. Mona glanced over and smirked.

‘ Yeah, looks like it. Are you dead over there pipsqueak?’

_Yes. Only watch out, because I’m about to turn into a vampire any moment, then I’ll come over there and_ get _you._

She’d have said it for real, if it had just been Marged there. The  _ old  _ Marged would have squealed and run away, and they’d have had a good game of vampires, ending with Marged getting bitten or Delia getting staked and bursting into a cloud of dust (or  _ both _ ), and they’d forget all about paint box make up, unless it was to draw dribbles of blood from the corners of their mouths… but Mona definitely wasn’t the vampire-game sort, and Delia wouldn’t have played with her even if she had been, so she didn’t say anything.

‘ Oh dear, maybe you should take the littlie home to her Mamgu, Marged’.

‘ Oh, but-’

‘ Yes you push off now Marged. We’re going to be talking about grown up things, I don’t think you’re really old enough either’.

‘ But  _ Mona _ -’

Mona frowned, and made a dismissive little waving gesture at Marged. 

She looked utterly crushed, as if the older girl had spat right in her face instead of just waving her hand. Even though Marged herself had done almost the exact same thing to Delia earlier, it was still sad to see her shrivel up inside her  cardigan like a deflating balloon. Marged had always been the grown up one when they played together before, but now she looked like a miserable little girl, her lip wobbling as she implored plaintively with Mona.

‘ Alright, we’ll go… but I can come and play again another day, can’t I? When I don’t have Delia along?’

‘ Mmm. Probably. We’ll see. Go on now, the pair of you’.

They went.

Marged stomped off ahead, annoyed at being sent away from the big girls, but Delia didn’t care, she was too relieved that it was over to think about anything else and skipped along at Marged’s heels.

‘ Shall we look for Beca and Nerys now?’

Marged gave a big sigh, the kind that was almost a word rather than a breath - ‘ _HUURRRRRR’_ to show how annoyed she was _._ But then she relented.

‘ There isn’t really enough time. It’s almost five already, and I’m  _ starving  _ anyway. Lets just go home. Give us the rest of that picnic, would you?’

Back in Marged’s room, things felt _almost_ back to normal. She still wouldn’t play imaginary games (‘they’re so babyish, I’d feel silly’), but they played several rounds of snap, and then moved on to ‘Sorry!’, racing each other around the board and keeping up a commentary of their moves as if the game pieces were real people. Delia tried not to feel _too_ pleased when she sent Marged’s third piece back home, even though it was tempting to crow over it, with the memory of Marged dismissing her still fresh in her mind.

She was just one good roll of the dice away from winning the whole game, when Mrs Pr y ce called up the stairs that Nain was here to take Delia home, and suddenly she didn’t care about ‘Sorry!’ anymore.

A rush of gladness overwhelmed her, and it was all Delia could do to say goodbye nicely to Marged and another thank you to her Mam, before she ran to Nain. If they’d been on their own she’d have thrown her arms around her and buried her face into her coat; but Marged was standing right there at the bottom of the stairs. Old-Marged wouldn’t have cared, but New-Marged might think her a baby for such a display, so she settled for giving Nain’s hand an extra tight squeeze instead.

‘ I  _ missed  _ you Nain’.

She whispered it very, very quietly, but Nain heard.

‘I missed you too, cariad. Come on, let’s go home’.


	11. Patsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me for this...

The ‘horsey ride’ was a disappointment, even to Grace, who had been quite keen on the idea at first.

They didn’t actually get to _ride_ the horse, Bertie just lifted them up into the back of the cart and told them to sit wherever they could find space. That wasn’t as easy as it sounded, because the cart was loaded with everything from a sack of coal to bags of flour and a bolt of cotton, as if Bertie was trying to stock up enough to last the whole winter long. Or maybe, she realised, enough to outlast the war. Suddenly the bags of onions and oats and stacks food in tins seemed more ominous than they had before. There was so _much_ here. Surely the war wasn’t going to go on long enough to use all of it?

She wanted to ask, but Bertie and Miss Bowen were already deep in conversation, sitting up high together on the seat of the cart and not paying the slightest bit of attention to her or Grace; so she pushed the thought away as best she could. Maybe Bertie just had a huge family, and needed all the food for his fifty brothers and sisters. She hoped so.

They ended up sitting with their backs against a sack of potatoes, facing away from the grown ups so that they could almost imagine they weren’t there at all, and that it was Mama or Maud driving the cart instead (although Maud never could because she was frightened of horses, and Mama never _would,_ because a horse and cart like this was _common_ and just for country bumpkins, whatever they were). If they _had_ been just on an outing with Maud and Mama, even being in the crowded cart instead of on the horse’s back _might_ have felt like fun, but they weren’t, and Patsy was getting sick of travelling. Since yesterday morning they had been in a cab, then a train, then a bus and now a horse and cart, and they _still_ hadn’t arrived anywhere they could actually stay.

Were they _really_ going to a house this time, or would get off the cart only to find a boat waiting for them? Or an aeroplane? Would they have to ride out the whole war on one mode of transport after the next, handed from grown up to grown up, until finally they were put on a train home to Mama? That sounded like it should be exciting – a proper adventure, like playing explorers with Mei Ling when she was little. In reality it was just tiring and uncomfortable, and a bit scary; even the parts that were just riding slowly through the pretty, quiet streets of a village in the last sunshine of an early autumn evening.

They left the village altogether after a few minutes, and clopped along country lanes instead, surrounded on both sides by fields of sheep or vegetables or big stacks of hay. Patsy felt almost sure that their bus had come along this same road earlier in the day – hadn't they passed that twisty tree before? And that field with the frowny looking scarecrow in?

She had a sudden hope that they might be heading back to the town where they had left Phyllis after all. Oh _yes!_ It would be so wonderful to surprise her.

They could jump out from behind the door and shout ‘ _surprise_!’ like at her friend Anne’s last birthday. Or should they just go straight to her and give her a great big hug, both of them together? Or run towards her shouting out ‘Phyllis, oh my Phyllis!’ like they were in the railway children? Well, maybe the last one was a bit silly, but she felt she would be as happy as Bobbie had been if they really _did_ get to see their friend again. Patsy was very glad now that she had saved the second pack of rolos, because then they’d be able to share them with Phyllis. Maybe they could eat them together when they played hairdressers.

The idea put her in such a good mood that she suggested to Grace that they should play a clapping game to pass the time, even though her sister could never manage to pat and clap in the right places.

They played pat-a-cake for a while, then when that got boring, made up their own rhymes to clap to.

Patsy tried to think of an Orlando one first to please Grace, and was rather proud of the result, since she’d just thought of it right on the spot:

Or-land-o is an or-ange cat,  
He wears a litt-le or-ange hat (‘no he doesn’t Patsy! He wears a green eye shade, it’s in the picture’ ‘yes, but that wouldn’t _rhyme_!’)  
He sleeps up-on an or-ange mat (‘no he does-’ ‘I _know_ Grace! Do you want me to do one about Orlando or not?)  
And cat-ches great big or-ange rats!

She kept it to a simple left-right clapping rhythm with a double pat on ‘orange’ in each line so it wouldn’t be too difficult to learn, and it seemed to work perfectly to her. She expected Grace to be thrilled, but when she’d finished her sister gave what Maud used to call her ‘quaint look’ and patted Patsy’s knee, like she was a grown up gently explaining an obvious mistake to her child.

‘That was a very good _try_ , but I think it would be better if it was really true, wouldn’t it? Look, _I’ll_ show you how’.

Grace straightened up importantly, waiting for Patsy to put both her hands up so she could clap against them, and then began:

‘ Orlando - _ pat _ \- is a marma - _ clap _ \- lade cat and - _ clap clap pat _ \- he wears a green eye shade -pat clap pat- and he goes camping with Grace -clap- and Tinkle -pat- and Blanche -clap pat- and Pansy -two hand pat- and they-’

‘ But you’re just  _ saying  _ things, that’s not a proper rhyme!’

‘ It is too, it’s more proper than yours was!’

‘ No it  _ isn _ \- oh, never mind. Let's try doing one about something different’.

They were in the middle of a long ‘rhyme’ that had started out sort of structured but quickly became each of them taking turns to name a different dessert in time to claps and pats (‘I woke up in the mor-ning, with hun-ger in my tum, I went out to the bak-ers shop to buy a cur-rant bun, yum yum! And then I bought ice cream, yum yum! And then I bought rice pudding, yum yum! And then I bought custard, yum yum!’ and on and on); when the cart came to an unexpected stop.

Patsy paused mid clap and looked around. Her heart sank. They weren’t back in the first town at all, and her hopes of seeing Phyllis again withered away instantly to nothing as she took in their surroundings. They were right at the edge of another  village , just level with the very first house on the outskirts.

Now they weren’t singing and the horse wasn’t clip-clopping, Patsy tuned into what the grown ups were saying again, and realised it was about  _ them _ .

‘ ... The Gethins? Are you sure?’

‘ Why not? Their eldest moved out recently, the girls can have her room’.

‘ Well, they’re just a bit… I mean, my brother and I were always that scared of that lot when we were children’.

‘ Childish nonsense. They’ll be fine, I’m sure they’ll love it here once they settle in’.

And then called over her shoulder:

‘Come on you two, time to go’.

Patsy stayed where she was, looking over at the run down house and most particularly at the big dog tied up outside it.

‘ If it’s all the same, I think we’d rather go to Mrs Griffi n , like the lady at the hall said’.

‘No, that’s no good. I’m sure she couldn’t manage the two of you with her hip, and besides, she lives back the way we came, we’re _miles_ off now. No, you’ll have to stay here’.

Patsy didn’t think it could be the hip that was the problem, Miss Bowen hadn’t even _asked_ Mrs Griffin if she’d have them, and they were only miles away because _she’d_ brought them here. But that wasn’t the sort of argument that worked on grown ups, they just told you to stop being cheeky and do as you were told. She tried a different tack instead.

‘ Well then, could we maybe try a different house? It’s just, I don’t think I like dogs very much’.

It wasn’t exactly the truth. Patsy actually  _ did _ quite like dogs most of the time – at least the sort she was used to, with smiley looking faces and good manners.  _ This _ dog looked like the house – poor and mean, and like it could swallow up little girls in a single bite. It reminded Patsy all too clearly of the wolves she had imagined in the hall, and the idea of having to live in its house made her heart pound uncomfortably in her chest.

Miss Bowen seemed not to hear her though, climbing down from her seat and then coming round to the back to help them down.

‘Miss Bowen? I _really_ don’t like dogs much. Can’t we please try somewhere else?’

‘ Oh what nonsense, all children like cuddly puppies! I’m sure you’ll love him once you get used to him’.

The dog tied up outside the Gethins was _not_ a cuddly puppy. It was a big, fierce looking black and brown monster with huge teeth that looked like they could bite her in half. She shuddered and shrank against the potato sack as if she might be able to get away from it that way, but Miss Bowen had already lifted Grace down and was reaching for her now, and there was no way she could refuse, not without risking them getting split up. She allowed herself to be helped down.

‘ Well, off you go then girls’.

Patsy stared at her.

‘O n our  _ own _ ?’

‘Why not? Just go up and knock on the door. Tell them you’re their evacuees, they’ll _have_ to take you’.

‘ But… but what if they  _ won’t _ ? What will we do then?’

Miss Bowen sighed, but thank goodness, she conceded the point.

‘ Oh very  _ well _ , I’ll come with you, but do hurry up please, I can’t spend the whole evening traipsing around after you two’.

As they got closer Patsy realised that the garden was a riot of weeds, and there were little piles of dog mess half hidden in the too long grass. She wrinkled her nose, feeling less sure than ever that this was going to be a good place to stay.

At least the dog barely stirred as they walked past, just twitching one ear in their direction and huffing a little in its sleep, but Patsy didn’t take her eyes off it even so, just in case it was only pretending.

Miss Bowen rapped sharply on the front door and Patsy clutched for Grace’s hand instinctively.

There was a long, long pause. Miss Bowen knocked again, and Patsy began to hope that maybe no one was home, and they’d have to go somewhere else after all. But no, just as Miss Bowen was raising her fist to knock a third time, the door was thrown open to reveal a thin, sallow woman with greying hair and an apron stained with something that looked horribly like  _ blood _ .

‘ What?’

‘ Good evening Mrs Gethin, My name’s Enid Bowen, I’m helping out with the billeting of our little evacuees. I thought I’d do you the courtesy of delivering yours to you directly, to save you the walk into town for them’.

‘ I didn’t sign up for any evacuees. You’ve got the wrong house’.

Mrs Gethin made to close the door, but Miss Bowen put out a hand to stop her.

‘ I know you weren’t registered, Mrs Gethin, but I’m afraid we ended up with rather more children than expected, and the rules have changed. Anyone with a spare room is required to take an evacuee’.

‘Is that true? _I_ haven’t heard that’.

Patsy didn’t think it _was_ true, but Miss Bowen nodded earnestly.

‘Oh yes, it’s the law. And I believe you _do_ have a spare room, now that your Agnes is gone?’

_ Agnes _ ? She knew it made no sense, but hearing the name felt like a bad  sign to Patsy –  as if the fact that Agnes Gethin shared the same name as the hated convent school meant that the people here would be just as bad as Sister Bernard and Miss  Richmond ...

‘ No, I’m afraid we don’t’.

‘ Oh, what a shame. Of course the billeting officer will have to come and assess the place, so that he can take you off the list if you aren’t suitable. It’s all taken very seriously. I believe I heard something about  _ fines  _ for non-compliance… but of course that needn’t worry you, since, as you say, you have no room to spare’.

Patsy stared at Miss Bowen, open mouthed. She was almost sure that she was making all of this up on the spot, it certainly didn’t match the way everyone had been talking in the hall.

Mrs Gethin must have believed it though, because she looked suddenly uncomfortable.

‘ Well, when I say we don’t have a room- I mean, I don’t know that it’s really  _ suitable- _ ’ .

Miss Bowen beamed, clearly sensing that her opponent was weakening.

‘ Oh, I’m sure it will more than suffice. The girls spent last night sleeping on the floor in the town hall, so whatever little corner you can find for them will seem like a palace by comparison. They understand that they are imposing on the charity and kindness of us country folk, and I’m sure they will be nothing but grateful for whatever you can spare’.

Mrs Gethin was still scowling in a most unfriendly manner, but she gave a short, reluctant nod, her chin jerking down just once, before she turned to look at Patsy and Grace with an appraising eye.

‘ We’ll take the bigger one then, at least she’ll be able to be of some use. You can find some other mug for the little scrap’.

Patsy couldn’t stop a gasp of horror, and she clutched at Grace. Mrs  Parry had  _ promised  _ they wouldn’t be split up! She took a breath to argue, but before she could Miss Bowen cut in.

‘ Oh go on Mrs Gethin, I’ve been trailing them round half the afternoon and I’m sure the little kiddie won’t be any trouble. She’s been quiet as a mouse the whole way here and I don’t suppose she eats much’.

She paused, and then added confidentially

‘ I believe the government will be offering compensation soon for taking evacuees, and you’d get double if you’ll have both girls’.

The irritation was still there in Mrs Gethin’s expression, but mixed in with it was a new look, a sharpening, focused sort of look, like a dog that’s scented a rabbit. It didn’t make Patsy feel better about the idea of living here.

‘ Alright then. Out of the goodness of my heart I’ll take them. But they’ll have to share, and I’ll expect them to work hard to earn their keep. I'm not a charity. I tell you, I’m too soft hearted for my own good’.

‘ That you are Mrs Gethin, a regular angel. Thank you so much. Well, I’ll leave them with you now to get settled. You be good for Mrs Gethin girls. Good luck’.

Before Patsy could properly take in what was happening, Miss Bowen had turned and was walking as fast as was seemly back to the cart, as if she was afraid that Mrs Gethin would change her mind if she lingered.

A moment later the cart was gone, on up the road and into the village, and Patsy and Grace were left alone on Mrs Gethin’s doorstep.

‘ Well, I suppose you had better come in. Wipe your feet’.

She stepped aside so they could pass by her into the hall, and then shut the door behind them. The three of them stood there awkwardly for a minute, as if Mrs Gethin didn’t know what to do next any better than they did. When the silence had stretched uncomfortably long, she ventured ‘you’ve had your tea, of course?’

‘ No, we haven’t’.

Now the subject had been raised, Patsy realised she was starving.

‘What? They didn’t even feed you before dumping you on my doorstep? The _cheek_! Are you _sure_ you haven’t had tea? You’d better not be lying to me missy. I don’t hold with greedy little children, and if I find out you’re not being honest-’

‘ We haven’t, I  _ promise  _ we haven’t! Nothing at all since breakfast. We didn’t even have any lunch’.

Mrs Gethin glared at her for another few seconds, as if the word ‘liar’ might start glowing on Patsy’s forehead if she stared hard enough, then she made a cross snorting sound and turned away from them.

‘I suppose I’d better give you something then, though I’m sure you must be exaggerating. Heaven _knows_ how they’re expecting me to feed two extra mouths. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t’.

They were led into a dingy little kitchen, a rickety table and chairs crammed into the only bit of available floor space, so you had to edge around them to get to the cabinets on the other side. Mrs Gethin gestured for them to sit and started bustling around, taking out a  heel of bread, a knife, a plate.

The table was already scattered with crumbs and little sticky patches that Patsy _hoped_ were just jam, but she didn’t dare look too closely. She was starting to feel quite afraid of sour Mrs Gethin and her red-stained apron, especially now she was holding a big knife. It was silly, she _knew_ it was silly, but Patsy couldn’t help thinking of Hansel and Gretel, and the witch that had tried to eat them. What if Mrs Gethin only had a spare room because she had pushed the last little girl that lived in it into her oven and _eaten_ her? Maybe she was slicing bread for a girl sandwich right that minute…

Mrs Gethin thumped a plate down in front of them, so hard it made the table creak and tilt a little on its unstead y legs. It held a single slice of bread, cut in half down the middle and spread with something lumpy and whitish. It smelled a bit rancid, and Patsy eyed it doubtfully. It was certainly better than going in a sandwich herself, but she didn’t much like the look of it.

‘ Oh, thank you Mrs Gethin, but- but Grace and I would be quite happy with just plain bread and butter, truly’.

‘ _ Excuse  _ me?’

‘ We- we’d be happy with just bread and…’

Her voice trailed away as she realised that she’d made a terrible mistake. At home, bread and butter was the plainest, simplest thing you could ask for. She had supposed Mrs Gethin would be pleased to give them such plain food and save on using her… whatever it was. But she seemed anything _but_ pleased.

‘Bread and _butter_? I’m _so_ sorry little Miss La-di-da. Isn’t our plain country fare good enough for you, you have to have _butter_ for your dainty stomach? Well you’re right out of luck – butter’s too dear to waste on the likes of you. In _this_ house you eat what you’re given or you don’t eat. So, do you want that bread and dripping or not?’

‘ Y-yes. Thank you. Sorry’.

‘ I should think so. Butter indeed’.

Mrs Gethin left them to their meal, bustling out the back door still muttering about ‘ungrateful city brats’ as she went.

Patsy bowed her head over her half slice of bread, her cheeks feeling uncomfortably warm at the scolding. The white stuff on the bread still looked horrid, but when Mrs Gethin had called it dripping, she had remembered Phyllis’ lunch on the train – squashed greyish bread with this same white paste spread over it. That cheered her a little. If _Phyllis_ liked it, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad after all.

Thinking about Phyllis also reminded Patsy of the way their friend had got Grace to eat her bun that morning. Maybe if Mrs Gethin saw her being really helpful with her little sister, getting her to eat up nicely, she would be forgiven for the butter incident.

‘ Shall we play the jam roly poly game?’

‘ No. That’s my game with Fliss. You’d do it wrong’.

‘ I  _ wouldn’t _ ’ .

But Grace shook her head very firmly, squaring her shoulders and folding her arms to show she wasn’t going to budge. Patsy tried hard not to feel hurt by the snub, but it stung a little.

She distracted herself by picking up her slice and taking a brave little bite.

Actually, it wasn’t bad.

The bread was coarse and a bit stale, but no more than the buns had been that morning, and the dripping tasted rich and meaty, satisfying in a way that ordinary butter wasn’t. She took another bite, and discovered that the horrible looking lumpy bits were little crispy pieces, almost like crackling.

‘ Oh try it Grace! You’ll like it, truly’.

Grace gave her a doubtful look but she was so hungry that she conceded, poking out the very tip of her tongue to give her slice a little, suspicious lick.

Then another.

She risked a very tiny bite next, and then hunger won over caution for the unknown altogether and she tucked in happily, her cheeks growing shiny with grease as she ate.

They had only been given a single slice between them, and neither felt full afterwards. Patsy wondered what they’d have for a second course, and whether she should go and tell Mrs Gethin they were done, or just wait here for her to bring it to them. She was still quite scared of Mrs Gethin, even if she probably _wasn’t_ a witch who was going to eat them, so she opted for waiting. For a minute or two they sat quietly, Grace chasing crumbs and smears of dripping round the plate with her finger and scooping them into her mouth, but once the plate was completely clear she started whining.

‘I’m still _hungry,_ I want another piece. Please’.

‘ We have to wait for Mrs Gethin’.

‘But she’s _ages_ and I _said_ please!’

‘ Yes, well- have some more water, that’ll fill you up’.

Mrs Gethin had left them each with a tin cupful, and Patsy pushed Grace’s towards her, although it was mostly empty now.

‘I _had_ water, I’m _hungry_ , not thirsty’.

‘Well we don’t _have_ more, so-’

‘I saw where the bread goes. _I’ll_ get it’.

‘ _ No _ , you can’t! We’d be in so much trouble. You absolutely mustn’t Grace. And you know you’re not allowed to ever touch knives!’

‘ Then you get it Patsy. I’m  _ hungry _ ’ .

‘ Oh  _ Grace _ -’

But Patsy was hungry too, and Mrs Gethin wasn’t coming back. She didn’t dare help herself to more bread; that would definitely get them in trouble – but maybe Mrs Gethin had just lost track of time and would be glad to be reminded they were waiting?

With great trepidation she slid down from her seat and tiptoed towards the door Mrs Gethin had gone through. She wasn’t sure _why_ she tiptoed – she wasn’t trying to sneak up on their host after all, but her feet went tip toe-y of their own accord. It felt like doing something naughty, even though she _wasn’t_.

She peered cautiously around the edge of the door-

And  _ SCREAMED. _

Patsy clamped her hands tight over her mouth as she staggered backwards, the scream continuing to pour out around them, muffled but unstoppable. Then she collided with her chair and fell back, her head banging hard on the edge of the table as she went down, stunning her into silence.

There were the sounds of swearing outside –  truly awful words, the worst ones Patsy knew, along with some that she’d never heard before, but guessed from how they were said must be even  _ worse _ .

By the time Mrs Gethin slammed open the door and stormed into the kitchen, Patsy was sitting on the floor by her chair, bleeding from a gash in her temple and sobbing in the wrenching, gulping kind of way that made it impossible to catch your breath. Grace was hiding underneath the table, hunched up in a little ball and shivering hard, a little keening noise coming from her throat.

The sight of Mrs Gethin made both of them cry harder – she was smeared with blood from hand to elbow, and was holding a big knife like a butcher in one hand. Patsy hadn’t really believed she was a child eating witch before, it was just the sort of story you scared yourself with in your own head that was never really _real_ , but she believed it now, absolutely. She had _seen_ the horrible, bloody mess out on the block outside, and Mrs Gethin raising the knife to hack bits off. That was probably all that was left of Agnes.

She tried to crawl backwards, but the chair was still in her way and in a moment Mrs Gethin was there. She had put the knife down thank goodness, but her hands were still horribly bloody as she grasped Patsy by the ear and pulled her until she staggered back to her feet.

‘ _ No, no, no, no’ _ .

It was all she could manage, but Mrs Gethin did not drag her outside to the block and cut her head off, she pushed her back down into the chair instead.

‘ You bloody well sit down and stay put. What the hell did you think you were playing at, yelling the place down like that? I could have cut off my finger!’

‘ The  _ blood- _ ’ .

It was all she could manage to choke out before she dissolved into tears again. She still wanted to grab Grace and run, but she was shaking so hard now that she didn’t think she could even stand, let alone move.

‘ What? What sort of milk sop townies have I been landed with? Of course there’s blood. You can’t butcher a rabbit without there being a bit of  _ blood _ . You’re going to need a stronger stomach than that if you’re going to get along here. Stop  _ crying _ , you idiot girl, or I’ll really give you something to cry about’.

Mrs Gethin was standing at the sink now, scrubbing irritably at her hands and arms until the water ran pink, and her skin was clean again. Patsy gulped hard, trying to force the sobs back down, though she couldn’t stop trembling.

‘ It was a r-rabbit?’

‘Well what on Earth did you _think_ it was?’

Even in her upset state, Patsy realised that it would be a bad idea to admit that she’d thought it was Agnes, so she kept quiet, trying to take deep breaths and convince herself that Mrs Gethin was telling the truth.

The idea of the bloody thing outside being a rabbit wasn’t a nice one either of course. Anne had had a pet rabbit named Truffles in Singapore, and Patsy had loved playing with it when she went to visit. It had been the cutest, fluffiest creature ever, with a wuffly nose and the softest ears, and the thought of anyone killing Truffles like that was horrible... but it was still better than it being Agnes on the block, and them next.

Mrs Gethin came over again then and grasped Patsy’s face in her newly washed hands, tilting her head to catch the light as she examined the cut.

‘ Oh it’s not that bad, just a little nick’.

‘ Could I have a bandage?’

‘No you couldn’t, you don’t need a bloody bandage. Just hold your hankie to it until the bleeding stops- what is that kid making that _noise_ for?’

Grace was still whimpering under the table, too afraid even to sob properly.

‘ She’s just a bit frightened…’

‘ Yes well, you scr eaming the house down like that, it’s no wonder. I’ve a good mind to send you packing right this minute and damn the money’.

She looked down at their empty plate.

‘ You’ve finished your supper I see. I think it’s high time you two went to bed and gave us all some peace’.

‘ Oh but- but we were hoping for a bit more. It’s just, we haven’t eaten much at all today, and we only had half a slice-’

Mrs Gethin seemed to grow taller then, drawing herself up and folding her arms, even as the room seemed to darken around her.

‘ Excuse me?’

‘We-’

‘What did I say to you about greedy children in my house? I won’t have you eating me out of house and home. I told you up front that if you both wanted to stay then you’d have to share, and I meant it. You be grateful that you were given anything at all, and don’t you dare ask for more. Now get to bed the pair of you, I’m sick of the sight of you’.

Of course they couldn’t go to bed, they didn’t know where ‘bed’ _was._ There was a tense moment when it seemed Mrs Gethin might accuse them of disobedience, before she seemed to realise that she hadn’t told them where to go, and led the way with an irritable sigh.

The staircase was very steep, with high, uncarpeted steps and no railing to hold onto. It was scary enough going up them, and Patsy dreaded to think what it would be like trying to come back down again. Grace would probably have to go down on her bottom, and even Patsy might be reduced to it if she needed to get down quickly.

Up on the landing, Mrs Gethin pointed to the closed doors.

‘That’s mine and Mr Gethin’s room – you don’t go in there under _any_ circumstances. _That_ one belongs to our son Lewis, you’re to stay out of there and all. He’s away helping on his uncle’s farm for the summer, but he’ll be back soon, and if he finds you’ve been in there he’ll likely box your ears for you. This-’ she pushed open the furthest door on the short corridor ‘-is your room’.

It was small and very bare, not even so much as a rug on the rough floorboards, and there were lighter patches on the damp-stained walls where evidently pictures had once hung. Worst of all, there was thick cardboard taped over every one of the window panes, so the only light in the room came from the open door.

Patsy blinked around at it disbelievingly. Surely they weren’t going to sleep  _ here _ ? No one could really expect children to live in a room like this, it would be too cruel.

But no matter how hard she looked, the room didn’t reform itself into something different, and Mrs Gethin didn’t laugh and say ‘only joking!’ before leading them to a proper bedroom.

The bed stayed narrow, its mattress thin and stained, the window stayed covered and dark, and their host stayed silent and scowling as they stepped gingerly over the threshold.

Mrs Gethin dumped a folded sheet, blanket and thin pillow on the end of the unmade bed, then made to leave again with a muttered ‘well, goodnight then’.

As she reached the doorway Patsy realised that there was something missing. There were only three doors upstairs, and Mrs Gethin had told them they led to her bedroom, their son’s room, and the room they were in now. But what about...

‘ Oh! where’s the WC please?’

‘ The W-  _ what _ ?’

‘ The- the  _ toilet _ ’ .

Patsy whispered the last word, feeling a slight blush creep up her neck as she did so. Mama had always taught her that ‘toilet’ was a terribly vulgar term, almost akin to actual swear words, but she didn’t know how else to describe it, other than WC.

‘ _Oh_. It’s outside of course, round the back. You’ve got a pot under the bed if you need to go in the night. Just you make sure you empty it regular and keep it clean, I don’t want it stinking up the place. And don’t you _dare_ drop it going downstairs, or you’ll be mopping it up with your _hair_ , do you understand?’

Patsy shuddered at that idea. If anyone else had said it she would assume they didn’t mean it _literally_ (because how would that even _work_?), but with Mrs Gethin she wasn’t so sure. She still had the awful image of her raising her bloody knife high, and the wet, meaty thump of it coming down on the Thing on the block going round and round in her head, and she would have believed anything of her just then.

She nodded at Mrs Gethin, unable to say anything further, and at last they were left alone. They stood in shocked silence for a minute after she had gone, tensed in case she should reappear again, but after a moment they heard the sound of their host clumping back down the stairs, then the distant slamming of the back door. Back to the sad, hacked up body of the rabbit she had been cutting up.

The thought made Patsy retch a little, so she pushed it away quickly, trying to find something else to think about before she could be actually sick.

‘ What are we going to do?’

Grace’s voice trembled, and the question seemed to encompass much more than their immediate situation –  what were they going to do about Mrs Gethin? About War? About this horrible, scary situation that just kept getting worse and worse? But Patsy didn’t know any of those answers, so she just said

‘ Well, we’re supposed to go to bed…’

‘ But I’m not sleepy. It’s too  _ early _ ’ .

Even with the door open t he room was reduced to a dim twilight by the taped windows, but outside the sun wasn’t even thinking about setting yet. It was  _ hours  _ before their normal bedtime, and they had both dozed back in the hall in any case.

‘Tell you what. Let's put on our pyjamas and get _into_ bed, but not sleep’.

‘ Do we both have to go in the same bed?’

‘I think so…’

The narrow single bed was the only piece of furniture in the room, and it didn’t seem likely that anything else was going to be provided.

It didn’t look very comfortable, with its thin, sagging mattress and austere iron frame.

Grace crept over and slipped her hand into Patsy’s. Her knuckles still felt a bit damp from where she had been sucking them anxiously, but Patsy gave the hand a little squeeze anyway.

‘ It’ll be fun. We can get into bed like Mrs Gethin said, then sit up and read together for a bit. And- and we’ll  have our gingerbread, because we didn’t get much supper’.

They were hungry enough to have the gingerbread men _and_ the apple and rolos as well and still not feel properly full; but a small, stubborn, secret part of Patsy was still thinking about their journey to find Phyllis, and the need to keep provisions by for the trip, even if it was just an apple.

Grace looked up at her, her face tear stained and peaky, but she nodded agreement, her little shoulders squared in determination to believe it really would be fun.

Grace tackled her pyjamas by herself, while Patsy tried to work out how to make the bed. It seemed like it should be simple –  the sheet went over the mattress, and the blanket went on top, but she couldn’t seem to get it to go right. The sheet was old, so threadbare that she could see her fingers through the cloth, and there was a big seam going up the middle, as if two halves of sheet had been sewn together, while the outside edges were uneven and raggedy. She spread it out as best she could over the mattress, but she couldn’t manage to pull it smooth the way Maud always had at home –  if she tried to pull it up then it left the bottom end bare, and it runkled up somewhere no matter how she pressed and tugged at it.

By the time she managed to get it sort of smooth enough to sleep on, her head was starting to really, properly hurt where she had banged it. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it felt hot and swollen, and was throbbing painfully. She reached up to touch it and winced. There was already a bump forming, and the dried blood felt strange and crusty on her skin. At home Maud would have cleaned it up and put ointment on it, then covered it carefully with gauze, but now Patsy didn’t have so much as a glass of water dip her hanky in so she could dab away the blood. Her forehead felt tight where it had dried on her skin, and little rusty flakes came away on her fingertips as she felt around it gingerly. It was even in her  _ hair _ , making it clump at the front in a way that felt disgusting and must have looked even worse.

She very nearly cried then, but she looked up to see her sister, already in her pyjamas and doing her best to brush her teeth with her dry toothbrush without even being asked, and she held the tears back. If Grace could be brave, so could she.

She got into her own pyjamas (Matilda bear tucked safely into the pocket), then gathered Grace, their two books, Kitty and the gingerbread. They had all piled into the single bed, the springs jangling and groaning as they got settled, when the obvious problem occurred to them both.

‘ It’s too dark, I can’t see Orlando’.

It was much too dark to read Dimsie too –  Patsy could barely see that there were words on the page at all, let alone what they were.

She sighed and got up again with another jangle of bedsprings, grimacing a little as her bare feet touched the unpleasantly  gritty floor boards. The lightswitch wasn’t in the same place it would have been at home, and in the dark Patsy had to search the wall for it with great sweeping strokes of her hands, expecting at any moment to brush against the familiar raised square of it. But there was nothing. Not on any of the bedroom walls, or out in the hallway either. She had been round the whole room twice before it hit her.

There wouldn’t be a light switch.

There  _ couldn’t  _ be one, because there was no light in the room for a switch to turn on.  T he ceiling was a bare expanse with no bulb hanging from it at all.

It was one thing too many.

Patsy felt her face crumple, unable to stay brave anymore.

Her head hurt from the cut, her tummy hurt because she was so hungry, she still felt horribly frightened of Mrs Gethin and shaky from seeing the dead rabbit – and that was only the tiniest part of all the badness that was building in her chest and pushing its way up to echo around her head as she stood and shivered in the dark.

Maud had left them.

Daddy had left them.

Mama had sent them away without the slightest thought for where they’d end up.

Then they’d spent all day on a train and all night sleeping on the floor only to find that there was no one _here_ who wanted them either – every grown up she met seemed to think Patsy was rude and bad no matter how hard she tried to be good.

No one in the  _ whole world  _ cared about them.

Even Phyllis had let them be taken away from her, and Mrs Parry from the hall had _seemed_ kind, but she had sent them off with Miss Bowen to end up stuck in this dreary room with no furniture and only one hard little bed, and now there wasn’t even any _light_.

The tears were spurting down her cheeks before she could blink them away, and they just kept coming and coming. She tried to swallow the sobs so that Grace wouldn’t hear and be frightened, but it was no good, it just made them come out all gulpy and sounding even _worse_.

Patsy’s eyes were screwed up too tight to see what Grace was doing, but she was sure that any moment she would start crying too. She tried to say something _-anything-_ to reassure her that everything was alright really, but she couldn’t speak. Every time she managed to suck in a breath it was expelled immediately on another wracking sob.

The bedsprings jangled again, and then Patsy was dimly aware of feet pattering across the bare boards. A moment later Grace’s arms were wrapped tight around her middle in a fierce hug.

‘It’s alright Patsy, I’ll look after you. _I’m_ the big sister now’.

Grace took Patsy’s hand in her own small, damp one and tugged her back to the bed, pushing at her until she sat down, then patting at her face with a sleeve covered hand as if it was a hanky.

‘ There there Patsy, there there, shhhhhhhh. Oh dear, upsy-daisy, oh dear, there there sweetiepops’.

Patsy gave a trembly little laugh and pulled her sister close for another cuddle. She was just parroting the things that Maud had used to say when they hurt themselves, but somehow the clumsy attempt at comfort really was helping.

Even though Grace wasn’t big enough to _really_ look after her, Patsy had been wrong to think that no one else cared. _Grace_ cared about her, and she cared about Grace, and maybe they would be alright after all, just as long as they had each other.

She took a deep, deep breath, and this time she was able to let it out slowly and smoothly. There were still a few stray tears spilling down her cheeks, but Patsy brushed them away with her fist and stuck her chin up as bravely as she could (‘chin up lass…’).

Alright, they couldn’t turn on a light, but that didn’t matter.

‘ Come on, let's clear away all that horrid cardboard from the window so the light can come in. Then we’ll be able to read properly’.

Surely no one would mind them doing that. The window was probably only covered in the first place because no one had been staying in this room for a while, of _course_ Mrs Gethin didn’t expect them to just stay in the dark all the time.

They couldn’t reach the highest pieces, but between them managed to clear away enough of the card to let the light come pouring in through the glass. It didn’t do much to cheer the room up, but the view outside was pretty – rolling fields and trees and the clear blue sky above, so clean and big and so, so different from smoggy grey London.

This time when they scrambled into the noisy, lumpy little bed, it felt almost cosy. They were squashed tight together and Grace was bound to kick and take up more than her share of space once she fell asleep; but for now it felt nice to be able to cling tight together, to feel Grace’s heart beating and her breath going in and out, familiar and regular. It felt safe.

They  nibbled slowly on their gingerbread , savouring each sweet, spicy bite and smooth lick of icing. The biscuit s had started to go a little bit soft from being kept in their case overnight, but  they w ere still delicious, and it eased their hunger pangs enough that they could mostly stop thinking about them.

It was light enough to read now, and for once Grace didn’t demand that Patsy read Orlando aloud. She looked at the pictures on her own, whispering remembered bits of the plot to herself, while Patsy settled down to read ‘Dimsie goes to school’ in peace. She had used to love the book because it gave her a glimpse of what things might be like when she went away to boarding school herself, as Mama and Daddy said she would when she was ten or eleven, but now it was comforting in a different way. Dimsie was away from home without any parents too, _and_ she had made it through a War, and she was still funny and plucky and having all sorts of adventures. She was the sort of girl who would get through evacuation with a smile on her face, and somehow get the better of everyone she met along the way, even Mrs Gethin. Patsy let the reassuring familiarity of the story soothe away the bad day, and when it got too dark to read even with the window uncovered, she and Grace settled down further into the bed and whispered their own stories to each other instead.

Grace did her best to retell Phyllis’ story from the train (missing out the bit about the cellar entirely and just talking about the ducks and the frog and playing on the farm), and then Patsy tried to imagine a brand new Orlando saga for Grace (‘Orlando in the Dolls’ House’ - in which Orlando shrank down to the size of a toffee chew and came to live in their doll’s house at home, along with his similarly tiny wife and their three miniscule kittens).

Eventually they fell asleep, curled around each other in the bed like the imaginary dolls’ house kittens in their basket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems that when I copy text from LibreOffice to AO3, it randomly inserts spaces in places there were none originally. Why does it do this? I have no idea. Can I be bothered to go through chapter by chapter and remove them all? Probably not. So, sorry about the occasional gappy word, I think it's all still legible?


	12. Delia

Delia poked listlessly at her breakfast egg. Nain had boiled it for just a bit too long, so the yolk was too hard to dip the point of her toast into, and really, what was the point of even _having_ a boiled egg if it wasn’t runny? The toast was a tiny bit burned too, but Nain hadn’t seemed to notice, not even scraping the black bits off before placing it down in front of her.

She sighed loudly, jabbing again at her egg and then glancing at Nain. She didn’t seem to notice that either –  didn’t even look in her direction.

Delia scowled down at her plate. From the moment she woke up that morning, everything had felt just a little bit _off_.

First there had been the dream. She had been playing with Cathy and Joyce in the playground at their old school, and it had started out perfectly. They had played that the stump at the edge of the school field was the faraway tree, and taken turns climbing up it into all sorts of interesting new lands, and it had felt just like she was really home with everything back to normal.

But then Cathy had screamed and fallen right off the stump, clutching her tummy. There was blood pouring out from between her fingers, hard and fast, like water coming from a tap. A minute later Joyce had done the same, doubling up and crying hard as if someone was murdering her, and there was blood everywhere, and she had been so sure they were going to die right in front of her.

But they didn’t die.

A moment after the blood started pouring, it stopped. Cathy and Joyce stood up looking perfectly normal, not so much as a tiny red stain on their clothes to show what had happened… only, they _weren’t_ normal.

Cathy pulled out a magazine and they had both turned away from Delia, burying their heads in its pages. She realised that they were wearing silk stockings, and that they had their hair piled up in teacher-ish buns on their heads. Their faces were covered with water colour paint makeup, and they were growing taller and taller, until they towered over Delia.

They stared down at  her with smirking smiles like Mona’s and told her that she was too little to play with them now that they were women, because they’d had their monthlies and were too old for games. They walked away arm in arm, and Delia was left all by herself, opening and closing her mouth in an attempt to call after them, but no sound would come out…

It was just a  _ dream _ , but she’d woken up feeling lonely and anxious. Marged had started her monthlies and she was only a couple of years older than Cathy and Joyce were. Who was to say that by the time Delia got back home, her friends might not have started theirs too? Then they’d be like Marged, not wanting to play proper games and ignoring her. What if they forgot all about her while she was here with Nain, and didn’t want to be her friends anymore when she got home?

She wished she could talk to them. Even just for a few minutes, to reassure herself that they really were the same as always.

When she got downstairs she had wanted to ask Nain if she could write them a letter, but Nain seemed distracted, getting up and looking out of the window for a minute, then sitting back down, then getting up to  turn on the tap to start washing dishes , before she changed her mind and  turned it off again. She had overcooked the egg and burned the toast without seeming to notice, and hadn’t even cut the toast into dippable strips, just two big triangles.

She didn’t seem to be having any breakfast herself, just a cup of tea, though she wasn’t even drinking that properly. She kept picking up and bringing halfway to her lips, then setting it back down on the table without taking a sip.

‘ Nain?’

No response.

‘ _ Nain?’ _

Nain jumped a little and blinked a few times, as if she had been dreaming with her eyes open, and had only just remembered where she was.

‘ Yes, sorry cariad. What did you say?’

‘ Are you poorly Nain?’

‘ Of course not babi, what makes you think that?’

‘ You’re being strange. And you burnt my toast’.

‘ Oh, did I? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. Here, give it back and I’ll cut the black bits off for you’.

But Delia shook her head. It wasn’t really the toast that was bothering her, it was that Nain hadn’t  _ noticed _ . Not the burnt toast, or the fact that Delia had come downstairs looking miserable, or even that she had forgotten to add any milk to her own cup of tea, though she hated drinking it black.

She wasn’t acting like Nain at all.

It was as if she was waiting for something bad to happen – an arithmetic test or a visit to the dentist. But grown ups didn’t _have_ arithmetic tests, and dentists offices weren’t open on Sundays, and anyway, Nain wasn’t frightened of the dentist.

It was all very strange, and she didn’t like it one bit.

Delia put down her spoon –  too hard so that the plate rattled on the table. She felt the tears gathering in her eyes, blurring the red and white stripes of her egg cup into a pink smear in front of her.

‘What’s _wrong_ Nain?’

At last Nain seemed to come properly back to herself and put her arms around Delia.

‘ I’m sorry, oh babi, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, I’m just a little bit distracted. I should have realised that you’d notice. I was going to wait until after breakfast to try and explain-’.

‘Explain _what?’_ ’

Nain took a deep breath, as if she was trying to work out exactly what to say.

‘ Well... Chapel’s going to be a little bit different this morning. We’ll still go and have the hymns and prayers as normal, but during the service Reverend Michael is going to turn on the wireless for a very important announcement-’.

Here she paused again, and Delia stared at her in disbelief. They were going to listen to the _wireless_ in _Chapel_?

You listened to music on the wireless, or sometimes there would be a play, or news, but they had never, ever listened to it in Chapel before. Not  _ ever _ .

‘ -Mr Chamberlain is going to tell us all whether there really is going to be a war or not, and then… and then we shall see what we shall see’.

‘ Oh’.

She hadn’t been expecting that. She had sort of felt like war already _had_ started, even though everyone was still saying ‘if war comes’ and ‘when the war starts’. But they already carried gas masks everywhere and had the shelter in the garden (still dark and empty inside but properly buried now, as they had worked on it again after tea the night before). Nain had started pinning thick fabric over the windows in the evenings so the house looked totally dark from the outside too, and the evacuees were here already. If all that had happened and they weren’t actually in a war yet, what would happen when they _were_?

Would bombs start falling on them right away? Would soldiers with guns appear everywhere, shouting in German and breaking down the door of the ch apel ?

The tears still swimming in her eyes spilled over and she clung to Nain.

‘Will the Germans come _today_?’

Nain hugged her back, very tight, but she sounded surer now as she replied.

‘ I don’t think so, not here. It probably won’t be today at all, even in London… but if they did come, we know we’ll be alright, don’t we? We’ve got our shelter all dug in ready, so we can hide away like rabbits in a burrow if we need to, and no bombs will be able to get us’.

‘ Are you scared Nain?’

Nain swallowed. Delia couldn’t see her face because they were hugging so close, but when she replied, Nain’s voice sounded steady and normal.

‘ Well, I am a little bit worried, yes. But it’s alright to feel anxious about something so big like this.

And it’s alright if _you’re_ scared, cariad. But remember that you don’t need to be _too_ frightened, because whatever happens, I’ll be here with you and I’m going to look after you and keep you safe’.

She _was_ scared, but it actually helped to know that Nain was too, but that she was only a little bit scared, so things couldn’t be so very bad.

‘ What’s going to happen?’

‘ I don’t think anything very much will happen just yet. We’ll go along to Chapel this morning and hear what the Prime Minister has to say, and we’ll pray with everyone for God to watch over us all, then we’ll come home. There probably won’t be any Sunday school today, so we can decorate our shelter then if you like, make it really cosy? And we can practise with our gas masks so we know that we’ll be sure of exactly what to do if we ever need them’.

‘ I don’t like my gas mask’.

It was too tight and made it hard to breath, and having her head stuck in it felt like it was being _eaten_ by some strange rubbery alien. It made everyone else look like an alien too, so even Nain stopped being properly familiar and comforting and looked quite creepy.

‘ I’m not so keen on wearing mine either, but they  _ will  _ keep us safe if we ever have need of them, and the more we practise the less strange they’ll feel. The best way to make sure we won’t feel scared is to make sure we’re as prepared as we can be for whatever might happen’.

Delia thought about this.

It definitely worked that way with spelling tests at school. Normally she hated them, and practising spellings was difficult and annoying and it took forever to remember the sneaky silent letters and work out which way round the i’s and e’s were meant to go; but if she went over and over them until she absolutely definitely knew every single one, the test itself could be _almost_ fun.

Could it ever be that way with putting on your gas mask, or running to the Anderson shelter in the middle of the night? Could you get ten out of ten and a big tick for doing well at War?

‘ Can I have my own torch in the shelter? So I can turn it on quick if it’s too dark down there and I get scared?’

‘ Of course you can, that’s an excellent idea. I’m going to make a list later of everything we need to buy to be prepared, and I’ll make sure that’s right at the top’.

‘ Alright…

Nain?’

‘ Yes babi?’

‘ _Will_ you scrape the burnt bits off my toast for me?’

Nain laughed, giving her one last little squeeze before she stood up.

‘ Yes cariad. Lets get that breakfast sorted out’.

The yolk was still hard, and both egg and toast had gone a bit cold now, but it was better with the burnt bits scraped off, and anyway, she didn’t really have time to notice because she had to eat up quickly so they wouldn’t be late for Chapel.

The sun was shining as they set off – a perfect early autumn day with the barest scattering of fluffy clouds to mar the perfect blue. Delia was wearing her best Sunday dress and smart shoes, Nain was close at her side, and it seemed like nothing bad could ever _really_ be about to happen on a day like today. Maybe Mr Chamberlain would say that there wouldn’t be a war after all, and then her time with Nain really would be just a holiday. They wouldn’t need to fit out the shelter anymore, so maybe Nain would help her bake a cake instead, to celebrate. They’d have a big slice each, maybe even _two_ slices, and then she’d go out to play for a bit in the woods, and then Mam would arrive. She wouldn’t have to do Women’s War Work after all, so they’d have _more_ cake with her, and then…

There were more people than usual walking towards the Chapel. Maybe a few more grown ups, but a _lot_ more children.

Delia stared.

In all the worry about her dream and Nain and the wireless announcement, she had forgotten that a lot of the evacuees would be going to Chapel this morning.

There were quite a few pale, skinny children with shabby clothes and downcast expressions, but plenty more that looked just… normal. A bit nervous or unsure maybe, gazing around at everyone with wide eyes as if they’d landed on a different planet, not not a bit like the boys had made out yesterday. No one fought, no one swore, and she could only see _one_ little boy with a shaved head, waddling along in wellingtons in spite of the warm day.

She looked hopefully for a skinny girl with dark hair and green eyes, even though she knew that Sara Crewe wasn’t _actually_ a real child, and certainly wasn’t going to turn up here even if she had been. It was just that she had been picturing it so hard that it had become almost real, as if her new best friend was just waiting to be found amidst the crowd.

Of course, _her_ Sara might look quite different. She might be that girl there with the pink frills and chestnut curls, or that one, with a grubby jersey and mousey blonde wisps coming loose from her plait. She might be called Amelia, or Evie, or Jemima. It didn’t matter, as long as she could tell Delia all about London, and they could play proper games together and tell stories, and she would _hate_ looking at boring, boring, boring magazines.

It was almost a shame not to be going to Sunday school today, where she might meet some of them.

Reverend Michael hadn’t opened the doors yet when they arrived, so she and Nain waited in the Chapel Yard with everyone else for it to be time to go inside. Nain started chatting with an old man almost at once, and for a little while Delia listened with interest, because they were talking about his evacuee.

‘ He’s a good little lad, very well meaning, he just needs a bit of house training that’s all.  And h e’s a champion little digger down at the allotment already. Aren’t you Eddie?’

The man put a big, gentle hand on Eddie’s close cropped hair, and Eddie smiled up at him. But then the little boy spotted another child he knew and wandered over to talk to him, and Nain and the man started talking about boring, grown up things –  shopping lists and vegetable harvests and something called a stirrup pump, so Delia wandered off too.

She spotted Marged in the crowd, but she was standing hopefully near Mona and Bea and the others, so it didn’t seem like a good idea to join her. She saw Beca and Nerys too, but they were Marged’s friends really, and she felt too shy to approach them, especially as they were both nine and might think she was too little.

She ended up just wandering vaguely around the Chapel Yard, pausing every now and then to listen to a conversation between the grown ups.

‘ ...keep bursting into tears, the poor little mites. They must be so homesick’.

‘ At least you only have liquid coming out the top end! Six years old mine is, and you should have seen the state of the sheets this morning! Sopping wet, it’s a disgrace!’

Delia felt a bit embarrassed on behalf of whichever child was having such a painful, private thing announced in front of all these people. Wetting the bed was such a shameful thing, but you couldn’t _help_ it, and it wasn’t fair to just go out and tell all these people as if it was any of their business. She hurried away from that particular conversation, not wanting to hear any more, but some of the others weren’t much better.

‘ ... crawling with lice. First thing I did was put him in a bath of disinfectant and give him a good scrub…’

‘ ... can’t understand a word either of them say, those cockney accents!’

‘ ... saw a cow and screamed, actually screamed! Like she thought it was going to eat her!’

Not everyone was talking like that of course. There were sympathetic grown ups too, talking about the ‘poor little things’ and how they needed feeding up and looking after. Or that their evacuees had been good as gold and got stuck straight into helping around the house or farm.

The children themselves were standing mostly in little clusters, or sticking close to their host families, which made it difficult to find someone she might strike up a conversation with. She tried smiling at one or two of the more likely looking girls, but neither smiled back. One of them didn’t seem to notice her –  too busy staring up at the little Chapel and around at the gathered people. The other saw her, but ducked her head right away, as if she was frightened of her. Still, she might have plucked up the courage to approach one or other of them and introduce herself, if just then Reverend Michael hadn’t opened the big front door to the Chapel and begun welcoming people in.

‘ Good morning! How lovely to see so many of you arriving so early for our service today’.

Delia hurried back to Nain and took her hand as they filed inside. The Reverend gave her a special smile as she passed and said ‘welcome back Delia’, to show he remembered her, which was nice because she hadn’t been to his Chapel all that many times, just a couple of times a year when she visited Nain for long enough to be here on a Sunday.

The Chapel wasn’t big, so they were all quite squashed together once they filed into the pews and settled in, but they just about managed so that everyone had a seat. Once the majority of the shuffling and murmuring had faded, Reverend Michael stood at the pulpit and gave them all a smile, spreading his arms wide in a gesture that encompassed the entire room.

‘ Welcome everyone. Welcome particularly to the new members of our congregation, our little evacuees. I trust that you will all be safe and happy during your time with us, and will feel very welcome here in our Chapel. I’m sure that all of us will do our best to keep Christ’s spirit of generosity and compassion in our hearts as we face the coming days together, and take the opportunity to learn what we can from each other’s different perspectives.  In that spirit, I thought we would keep to English for today’s service, to make sure everyone will be able to take comfort from God’s word, and sing along with familiar hymns when they are so far from home ’.

There were a few whispers at that – normally they would at least sing some of the hymns in Welsh, even if the service itself was in English. But Reverend Michael just gazed out at them with an implacable smile that brooked no disagreement, and the muttering subsided quickly.

After that things went on as usual –  they stood to sing ‘He who would valiant be’  and said a prayer together , and then the service began.

It all felt so normal –  her attention switching between trying very hard to listen to every word, and trying just as hard to resist the urge to shift about on the hard bench, or swing her dangling legs to work out the pins and needles, that she had forgotten all about the eleven o’clock announcement.

Her attention had drifted once again from the sermon, and Delia was idly imagining the saints on the stained glass window yawning and moving furtively to scratch their nose, or stretch their muscles after staying in those uncomfortable positions for so long. She was busily engaged in staring at a particular figure visible just above the Reverend’s left shoulder, when Reverend Michael stepped solemnly down from the pulpit.

She jumped, just a tiny bit. The service couldn’t be over already could it? Had she somehow dozed off for part of it without noticing?

But Reverend Michael wasn’t thanking them all for coming and moving among the crowds to say a few words to people as they filed out. He was bending over a wireless that had been set out on a little table at the front of the room, twiddling with the  knobs. There was a sudden burst of static, then the crackling resolved itself into voices, and Delia remembered that they were about to find out if there was going to be a war or not.

The entire Chapel sat in utter silence. No one coughed, not even any babies whimpered or stirred. They were all so still and quiet, you might almost think that Sleeping Beauty’s curse had put them into a deep, unwakeable sleep, except for how straight everyone was sitting, how tense their shoulders and wide open their eyes were. Delia wanted to take hold of Nain’s hand, but she felt as immobile as everyone else –  frozen in place by the stillness of the room and fearful anticipation of what might be going to happen next.

She didn’t really know what Mr Chamberlain sounded like, and might not have realised that the big moment had arrived at all, except that everyone around her suddenly stiffened, painfully alert as they listened to the slightly fuzzy voice of the Prime Minister, talking to them all the way from London.

Delia listened too, concentrating as hard as she could. She didn’t really understand everything he was saying, but there was one part that was unmistakable:

“ Consequently, this country is at war with Germany”.

The war wasn’t an ‘if’ anymore. It was here. There was a war happening right now. Several people around the room gave little cries or moans, and murmured conversations sprang up in every corner. Delia did reach for Nain’s hand now, only to find that Nain was already reaching to take hers. They held on tight to each other, and Nain gave Delia’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

Mr Chamberlain was still speaking, talking about playing your part and doing your duty, but Delia had stopped listening properly. She stared up at the ceiling instead, still half expecting to hear explosions and the sounds of planes overhead begin immediately.  E verything outside the walls of the Chapel stayed quiet and peaceful –  not a sound to be heard, apart from the very faint twitterings of birds going about their normal day, as if the whole world hadn’t just changed in an instant.

Reverend Michael turned off the wireless. He was looking very grave now, his hands clasped before him, his head very slightly lowered.

‘ Let us all pray together now, that God may grant us victory, and safety for our homes and for those we love’.

They knelt, as best they could manage in the cramped conditions, and bowed their heads. Delia thought about Mam and Dad, and asked God to please, please keep them safe, and to let the war be ended quickly without anyone having to be hurt or killed. Reverend Michael led them in  a few more prayers, and then they sang ‘Fight the Good Fight’ and ‘I vow to thee my country’’ - both clearly chosen to follow the announcement of war.

That was the end of the service. There were a few more announcements, but Delia couldn’t listen to them. She badly wanted to go home and be just her and Nain again. She wanted to get out her colouring pencils and draw pictures of rabbits and birthday cakes and rows of smiling girls with party frocks and flowers in their hair. She wanted Biscuit, and she wanted Nain to read her a story. Not Emily of New Moon, or even The Enchanted Wood. She wanted Mrs Tiggy-Winkle or Peter Rabbit, something very soft and gentle and written for little, little children. Anything that was simple and happy and wouldn’t make her think about War.

They didn’t linger to chat after the end of the service, and Delia didn’t stay to attend Sunday school. Instead they hurried straight back home. Nain was walking quite briskly, but Delia kept pulling her to go faster, wanting to run as hard as they could, and run and run, then shut themselves inside Nain’s house and close the curtains.  Even the sky didn’t look bright and cheerful anymore – the scattered fluffy clouds of the early morning had gathered together and grown darker while they were in the Chapel, and were now glowering ominously, threatening rain. It had been silly to imagine the sunny start to the day could keep bad things from happening. If whole countries could be not-fighting one minute and trying to kill each other the next, why shouldn’t the weather be the same? What was to stop anyone or anything suddenly turning on each other? Delia tugged on Nain’s hand even harder, lowering her head to avoid seeing the ever darkening sky.

When they got home, Nain led the way to the big old armchair so that Delia could sit on her lap for a  cwtch . She asked if Delia wanted to talk about what they’d heard, but she didn’t.

‘ Will you read Mrs Tiggy-Winkle?’

‘ Mrs Tiggy-Winkle? It’s been a while since we had that one’.

‘ Please Nain?’

‘ Alright cariad, if that’s what you need just now’.

She read Mrs Twiggy-Winkle just the way she had when Delia was little, doing different voices for Lucie and Mrs Twiggy-Winkle and all the animals they delivered washing to. She let Delia look at each picture as long as she liked before turning the page, and rocked her in her lap as she read.

But when the story was finished and Delia asked if they could have ‘Squirrel Nutkin’ next, Nain told her gently that they would have to save it for later, because it really was important that they get on and finish sorting out the shelter first.

‘ I don’t want to do the horrid old shelter. I want Squirrel Nutkin!’

‘ Delia-’

‘ _ No! _ ’

She wasn’t sure why she was shouting, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

‘ It’s not  _ fair! _ ’

Hot tears dripped down her cheeks, but she wiped them away fiercely with her wrist as she scrambled out of Nain’s lap.

Nain reached for her again, but Delia pushed her hands away and ran up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom, sobs tumbling from her in wave after unstoppable wave.

She slammed the door shut behind her and went to her bookcase, pulling Squirrel Nutkin out from where it sat on the lowest shelf with several other tatty Beatrix Potter stories. She stared at the cover for a moment, then tossed it aside without even opening it. ‘The Tale of Two Bad Mice’ followed, and then ‘Benjamin Bunny’, and then she was flinging books from her shelves with both hands, one after another after another, until the bookcase stood empty.

She sat on the floor and howled then, her knees pulled up tight against her chest.

If Mam had seen the mess she would have been furious –  might even have finally made good on her frequent unfulfilled threat to bend Delia over her knee and smack her bottom like she was a toddler.

But she still badly wished she were here.

She wanted Mam and Dad and her own bedroom. She wanted to see Cathy and Joyce and go to school and get smacked for being cheeky and only visit Nain for holidays, even though she always missed her terribly in between times. She didn’t want to be a little girl whose country was going to war. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _fair_.

Nain knocked gently on the door, and then pushed it open and came inside.

She sat down beside Delia while she sobbed, one gentle hand on her shoulder.

Delia stayed stiff and separate for a long minute, but then she gave in and flopped against Nain, snuggling in close against the soft old jumper she had pulled on over her Sunday dress. It had once belonged to Taid, so it was much too big for Nain, but it made Delia feel almost like she was being cuddled by both her grandparents. It was a nice feeling, although  her memories of Taid were beginning to get a bit hazy now .

Nain held her and let the sobs run themselves out, stroking her back in slow circles until the shuddering stopped and her breathing returned to normal.

‘ Feeling better now cariad?’

She nodded.

‘ That’s good. Shall we get these books picked up then, and get on with our jobs?’

Delia surveyed the mess and grimaced a little.

‘Do we _have_ to?’

‘ Yes, we do have to. I know it’s going to be hard and you’re feeling frightened, but we need to be brave now and carry on. We need to do everything we can to make sure we’re safe, and to help make sure our neighbours will be safe too. If we all lock ourselves in our rooms and throw things about, what will happen then?’

Delia still wasn’t quite feeling like being brave and grown up about it all. She tucked her chin against her chest and muttered ‘we’d feel a lot better’.

‘ Do you think so? Well, maybe for a little while. But then we’d be living in messy houses and all our things would get broken so we couldn’t use them anymore. We’d have to sleep in that dark, empty Anderson shelter if there were any air raids because no one would have made it comfy, and we wouldn’t have anything to eat because the butchers and grocers would all be at home throwing their things around too. I don’t think any of us would be very happy then, would we?’

‘ No, Nain’.

She might still have sounded just a tiny bit sulky, but Nain didn’t comment.

Delia peeped up through her lashes to see Nain’s face, trying to decide how deeply in trouble she was. That was the problem with Nain – she stayed so calm most of the time it was difficult to tell if she was really in disgrace or not. Well, it was the very, very _good_ thing about her. But it was simpler with Mam all the same. If she frowned and snapped you were in trouble. If she shouted and smacked you were in a _lot_ of trouble. If she went all quiet with her nostrils pinched white and sent you to your room as if she couldn’t quite get the words out through her clenched teeth ‘ _go- to- your- ROOM_ ’, then you were in serious disgrace, and the shouting and smacking would happen later, maybe followed by the frowning and snapping for the rest of the day or more, even when the initial telling off was over. But Nain never smacked her, or told her she was a disgrace and she was ashamed to say she was her granddaughter or anything like that.

‘Are you _very_ cross with me?’

‘ Well, I’m not happy about how you’ve behaved, particularly how you’ve treated all your poor books… But no, I’m not really angry. I understand how difficult and scary all this is for you, and you’re maybe feeling a bit overwhelmed. The important thing is trying to find the right way to get those feelings out, instead of being rude to people and throwing heavy things. Maybe next time try throwing your pillow at the wall instead if you really, really need to throw something, then nothing will get hurt or broken’.

N a in carefully picked up an old copy of ‘The Wind in The Willows’ as she spoke, straightening badly crumpled pages with the palm of her hand. But the pages wouldn’t go completely smooth again no matter how hard she pressed, and Delia looked down sorrowfully at the creased image of Mole and Rat in their boat, now apparently sailing through a very turbulent stream indeed.

‘Oh _no!_ I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to’.

‘ I know you didn’t cariad. It’s alright. Just get the books picked up and put away, and try to remember this next time you feel cross like that, alright?’

‘ I will, I promise’.

‘Good girl. Come downstairs when you’ve finished and we’ll see about that shelter. If you’re very brave and help out well, I’ll fetch out the ginger biscuits in a little while and we’ll have them with some lemonade’.

For a moment after Nain had gone, it felt like all the angry and sad and scared feelings might come surging right back. But then she thought about ginger biscuits and lemonade, and a torch of her very own, and how nice it was when she and Nain were happy and playing games instead of feeling cross with each other. She thought about the pages of The Wind in the Willows that would stay spoiled now, and what Nain had said about how bad everything would get if they all just stayed in their rooms feeling sorry for themselves.

She bent to pick up the nearest book and placed it carefully back onto its shelf.

When at last the whole room was put back to rights, Delia squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and went downstairs to help Nain with their own Women’s War Work.


	13. Patsy - pt 1 of 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few notes for this one – first, although I am trying to keep things fairly balanced with Patsy and Delia perspectives, there are a few bits coming up where I just need more Patsy time to get everything covered, so there will be two Patsy chapters in a row now instead of the usual alternating one each.
> 
> Also, now that Patsy and Grace are staying with the Gethins I thought it might be worth offering a bit of a content note for those who might need it.  
> While there isn’t going to be any really severe abuse going on, I know that scenes of childhood domestic trauma at any level of severity can be a particular trigger point for many, so I thought what I’d do for the coming chapters is add a note at the end with a list of anything that happens that I think some people might not be ok with reading, thereby avoiding spoilers for those who don’t want them, but letting anyone who is worried read that first to decide whether they want to skip the chapter. For anyone who does, I’ll add a quick synopsis of the main plot points so you can pick up at the next chapter you’re up for reading without confusion over what’s going on.
> 
> Having said that – this chapter is not NEARLY as upsetting as I have made it sound with this note, so please don't be put off!!

Patsy woke to the sound of piano music, drifting in through the open bedroom door. She recognised Chopin’s Berceuse and smiled a little under the covers, keeping her eyes shut as she listened.

The tune was one of Mama’s favourites.

On good days, when Mama was happy and Patsy and Grace were well behaved, they would spend an hour or two together before bedtime – sometimes just the three of them, but Daddy too when he wasn’t working. There would be tea to drink (Grace only got milk in a normal cup, but Mama let Patsy have proper tea in one of her real fine china teacups), and tiny bite sized cakes, or a chocolate from one of the big imported boxes that arrived from time to time. They had to sit up nicely and eat and drink with the utmost care, because spilled tea or scattered crumbs could spoil the whole evening and get them sent back upstairs early. It was worth the risk though – the cakes were always delicious, and although the tea was weak and milky and (Patsy considered secretly), not half so good as lemonade, it felt ever so grown up to sip it from a pretty tea cup with flowers painted on it, with a matching saucer to stand it in.

Once they had finished their refreshments, Mama would ask about Patsy’s lessons and Grace’s games, and would listen to them recite, or plink out the latest tunes they’d been learning on the grand piano that had stood in the drawing room in Singapore. Sometimes she would sing along with their playing, and those were the best days, because Mama had such a beautiful singing voice that it made even Grace’s shaky melodies sound pretty. Daddy always said that Mama’s voice was what made him fall in love with her, and that it would make the angels in heaven weep to hear it.

When Maud came at last to take them up to bed (always too soon, even if Patsy was yawning over the keys and Grace was at risk of dozing off and falling from the piano stool); Mama would stop singing and take over their place at the piano instead. She would play Chopin’s Berceuse, or Brahms’ Wiegenlied as they went out the room, saying that the sound of it would carry them up the stairs and into happy dreams. On those nights they would be allowed to keep the bedroom door open to hear the soft melodies as they drifted off – Mama playing tune after gentle tune until they were both fast asleep.

There hadn’t been any more cosy piano evenings since they’d left Singapore. The grown ups were always too busy to spend idle time with her and Grace, and anyway, they hadn’t brought the piano with them.

So this time Patsy didn’t go to sleep.

She wanted to savour every moment and lay awake, listening to the music and smiling to herself, until the last note faded away.

When all was quiet again, she opened her eyes at last and gazed up at the sunlight playing over the ceiling above her. she felt happy and excited, though she couldn’t quite remember why.

When she slipped out of bed, her bare feet touched down onto the soft expanse of a carpet as thick and fluffy as cats’ fur, and she curled her toes into it deliciously. She could smell bacon cooking, and fresh bread, and – yes, _chocolate cake._

She hurried down the stairs as quickly as her feet would carry her, her rainbow-beribboned plaits bouncing on her shoulders as she went. Mama met her at the foot of the stairs and scooped her right up into her arms, giving her a great big cuddle without seeming to mind a bit if her blouse got creased.

‘Good morning my precious darling! Come and have breakfast. Just wait until you see the lovely surprises I have for you!’

Mama carried Patsy into the dining room like a baby, though she hadn’t picked her up for years until now, and sat her down in her usual seat. There was a big heap of wrapped presents waiting there for her, piled high all around her plate, and Daddy and Grace beamed at her from across the table.

‘Open them Patsy!’

‘Yes, do open them darling!’

So she did, tearing at the paper to reveal gift after magnificent gift.

There was a new dress in all different rainbow colours to match her ribbons, and a whole set of brand new books, each one with an interesting looking cover that hinted at exciting stories within. There was a special dolls’ house shaped like a hollow tree with beautifully furnished rooms inside and a tiny family of teddies just the right size to be friends with Matilda, as well as a whole wardrobe of new clothes for her, in case she ever fancied a change from her pinafore. Patsy got a bicycle of her own, and ice skates, and a set of brushes and combs and hairpins just like Mama’s so she could have her hair put up properly, and all sorts of other things, so many they spilled right off the table onto the floor, but no one minded a bit about the mess.

They were just being served big slices of chocolate cake studded all over with rolos (cake for _breakfast!_ ) when there was a knock on the door. Quite a loud knock, so that Patsy jumped and dropped her fork on the floor with a clatter.

Mama seemed unperturbed however, and clapped her hands delightedly. ‘Oh, that must be your friend Phyllis, come to tea!’

Oh how wonderful, Phyllis was coming!

Except… how _could_ Phyllis come? Mama didn’t know Phyllis, and she would never invite her home to tea if she did. And how could they be home at all? They’d met Phyllis on the train, going to…

The door banged again, even louder. Much, much too loud for a guest asking to be let in. Then there was a single, almighty _SLAM_ , and Patsy woke with a start, her heart pounding.

She was squashed up tight against Grace, springs from the old mattress digging hard into her hip and shoulder where they had very nearly worn right through the cover. The room was so absolutely black that for a confused moment Patsy was afraid she had gone blind. Their London bedroom was _never_ this dark. There had always been street lamps, or car headlights going by on the road, or light under the door from the corridor. Here the dark was so total that she couldn’t make out Grace beside her, or even her own hands when she held them to her face.

Patsy closed her eyes tight, trying to forget all about the Gethins and get back to the light, airy dining room of her dream, where Mama was in the best mood ever and Daddy and Grace were both so happy and jolly and they were about to have chocolate cake for breakfast... but it was no good. She was too uncomfortable, and sounds from the room below kept breaking through her imagined scene.

Creaking floorboards as someone moved around.

The thump of shoes being kicked off.

The buzz of voices.

At first the words were too quiet to make out, but then-

‘YOU DID _WHAT_?’

It was a man’s voice, so loud and harsh that it made Patsy jump, and Grace whimper in her sleep.

He sounded angry. Maybe even angrier than Daddy had the time she had borrowed a pen to write her story without realising it was a special expensive one, and the nib had got all spoiled so the ink blotched whenever you wrote.

She huddled further under their single blanket as if it might protect her, cuddling up close to Grace even as she strained to hear what was happening downstairs.

Mrs Gethin’s reply came as a soft buzz, too faint to make out more than the occasional word, but the man’s voice was so loud and clear that it was as if he was in the room with them, standing at the end of the bed and staring down at them with a snarl of fury on his face. He might reach out and grab her ankles at any moment, and she’d never see him coming in the dark... The idea was so terrifying that Patsy ducked down even further so that her head was right under the covers, and pulled her feet up as high as they could go in the limited space, trying to get out of grabbing range.

The voice boomed again through the floorboards.

‘You stupid bloody woman, how could you land us with a couple of city brats? Of course it’s not compulsory. They took you for a mug! Well, I won’t have it. You can bloody well take them back in the morning and say we don’t want them’.

A couple of city brats… He was shouting about _them_.

It had been obvious enough yesterday that Mrs Gethin hadn’t really wanted them, but this felt different. Different, and much, much worse. Would they just be thrown out on the street in the morning and left to fend for themselves? Was _Mr_ Gethin the one who chopped up little girls with the rabbit knife, instead of his wife? He sounded scary enough.

‘I don’t give a damn what that snooty woman told you! I won’t have-’

There was a pause, the buzz of Mrs Gethin’s voice, and then, not quite so angry:

‘-Well how _much_ money?’

The conversation continued, but too quiet now to make out the individual words. Patsy held her breath and listened hard, trying to work out what was being decided about them in the room below, but it was no good.

She lay awake for a long while after that, worrying over what she had heard and dreading having to meet Mr Gethin in the morning.

The home of her dream seemed so far away now that she couldn’t quite remember what it had felt like to be so comfortable and happy, and to feel so cherished by Mama and Daddy...

It was a silly dream anyway.

It hadn’t ever been that way _really_ , not even when they’d had their seaside holiday and all felt so jolly on the train, or on the very best days in Singapore when Mama had played for them and Grace didn’t spill her milk and Daddy told them they were his pretty little princesses. In _real_ life there were rules to follow and clothes to keep neat and a telephone to ring and call Daddy away at a moment’s notice.

If Mama knew about the dream she’d have called Patsy greedy and ungrateful for imagining all those presents - ‘as if you don’t have enough toys already!’ She would never understand that although the toys had been lovely, they hadn’t been the _point_. The best thing about them was that Mama and Daddy had picked out exactly the things she’d like best just because they knew her so well, rather than giving what they thought she ought to want as they usually did (‘don’t be so ungrateful Patience, I’d have loved a pretty dolly like that when I was your age!’).

The best part of the whole dream had been being cuddled close in Mama’s arms and having Daddy look right into her eyes and smile as if she really was a princess, without once nipping off to his office or being called away on urgent business. But that part was also the most unrealistic of all, because it was undignified to put on great shows of emotion (happy _or_ sad), even just with your own family. And besides, little girls would become spoiled and prideful if you gave them too much praise and attention – everyone said so, so it had to be true...

At some point during the long night Patsy must have dozed off again, because the next thing she knew it was light, and she was being woken by the raucous cawing of a bird somewhere beyond their window.

She blinked blearily, staring up at the sunlight playing over the ceiling above her. She felt anxious and afraid, though she couldn’t quite remember why... until she slipped out of bed and her bare feet touched down onto the cold, rough floorboards of the Gethins’ spare room.

There was no piano music here, no smell of bacon or bread and certainly no chocolate cake, just the continued noise of the bird, and the musty reek of a damp room too long unaired.

‘Patsy?’

‘Shh, I’m still here’.

Grace sat up and rubbed her eyes, her hair sticking up in every direction as if she had spent the night in a fierce wind. She yawned hugely, and then blinked at Patsy as if she’d never seen her before.

‘You look _horrid_ ’.

She _felt_ horrid, and there was no mirror in the room to check the truth of Grace’s words, but she was a bit offended by them all the same.

‘I _don’t!’_

‘You do. Your head’s gone all lumpy and purply, and your hair looks funny, like you have paint in it’.

‘Oh’.

Now that she brought it up, the pain of Patsy’s cut head came back worse than ever, and she felt it cautiously, afraid her head might actually have swollen right up, so one side was much bigger than the other.

There _was_ a bump there, but it didn’t seem to be any bigger than last night, and the cut felt scabby with no fresh blood, so it must be alright.

‘It’ll be better when I wash it. Probably. You’d better get up now Grace, it’s probably very late and we don’t want to get in any more trouble’.

There was no clock in the room, but at home whenever Maud wasn’t there to wake them at the usual time they both tended to sleep on until Mama appeared, shaking and scolding them for being so lazy. Mrs Gethin might not stop at shaking, so it would be best to be up and dressed before they were called on.

Patsy picked up yesterday’s dress from the floor and stared at it in dismay. It was crumpled and grubby, soiled with smuts from the train and dust from the various floors they’d been sitting and lying on, and there was a little bit of blood on her bodice that must have dripped when she’d cut herself... unless it was _rabbit_ blood from Mrs Gethin’s hands, where she’d pushed Patsy down into her chair after she fell over. She dropped it back on the floor with a little shudder at that thought, determined not to wear it again until it had been washed.

Grace’s dress was no better – if anything it was _worse_ , because in addition to the dust and sooty smudges, there was a big smear of gravy on one sleeve, and a glob of dripping stuck unattractively to the skirt.

‘We’d better put our best dresses on right away, instead of just before church. We can’t put our other ones back on until Mrs Gethin’s washed them for us’.

But even the best dresses, so far kept safe and unworn in their case, didn’t look as fresh as they should have done.

Patsy had done her best to pack carefully, but she didn’t quite have the knack of tucking in all the flouncy bits and folding them so they wouldn’t crease, and the contents of the case had been jumbled half a dozen times since she’d first arranged it anyway, as they’d searched through it for lunches or teddies or wash things.

In fact, the dresses were so badly creased that the skirts wouldn’t hang straight, and one side of Patsy’s collar stuck up at an odd angle no matter how she tried to tug it flat. But they were at least clean, so she pulled on the rumpled dress and her last pair of clean underwear (goodness knows what they would do tomorrow), and hoped that the creases would drop out by the time they went down for breakfast. She looked up from tying her sash to find that Grace had tried to get dressed on her own too, but had got caught up in the layers of inbuilt petticoat and was now stuck with her head and one arm lost inside the masses of pink material.

‘Stop struggling, you’ll rip it!’

‘ _Stuck_ , Patsy!’

‘I know, just stand _still_ a minute’.

There _was_ a tiny ripping sound as Patsy fought to disentangle Grace from her dress, but once they had got her head and arms through the right holes she couldn’t find any places where the fabric looked torn, so maybe it didn’t matter.

There was a bigger problem though.

Patsy had to pull hard to get the buttons to fasten across Grace’s back, and once it was done the dress was so tight under her sister’s arms that she could only raise them half way, the material straining at the seams even from that much movement.

‘It’s _pinches_ ’.

‘Well why did you pick _this_ dress to bring? I asked which was your favourite and you said it was this one!’

‘It _is_ my favourite, but it still pinches. It’s my favourite when it _doesn’t_ pinch’.

‘You must have grown out of it ages ago. Why didn’t you _say_?’

‘You didn’t _ask_ that! You asked which I like best, and I like this one best!’

At home Patsy would have kept bickering over this point, but she felt too worried for that now, and too guilty. It was _mostly_ Grace’s fault for picking the too small dress, but it was Patsy’s fault too, because she was older and Mama had told _her_ to pack the case for both of them. Only she’d done it all wrong and now they didn’t have anything properly nice to wear for Sunday, so God would be cross with them just like every other grown up seemed to be.

It would be shameful (perhaps even sinful) for Grace to wear her grubby every day dress to Sunday Service, but how could she wear her best dress if it was too small for her?

But she _had_ to wear it, there wasn’t anything else.

‘You’re just going to have to put up with it. I’m sure you’ll be able to wear your normal dress again tomorrow’.

‘I want to wear it _now_ ’.

‘Well you can’t. It’s Sunday, and you can’t wear a dirty old dress on a Sunday, and we haven’t got anything else, except pyjamas’.

‘Fine, I’ll put on my jamas again’,

‘You _can’t_ wear your pyjamas all day!’

Grace scowled hard at her, her lip jutting dangerously.

‘Bossy Bum’.

‘Bum’ was the worst swear word Grace knew, and was reserved for the direst of insults. Patsy knew from bitter experience that there was no grown up method that could win her this argument once the B word came out.

She sighed.

‘Alright, I’m a bossy bum. You can go ahead and call me Bossy Bum as much as you like today, but you have to keep the dress on’.

Grace paused mid-pout, interested. She hadn’t ever been given permission to call someone the rudest name in her vocabulary before.

‘As much as I like _all day_ , Bossy Bum?’

It was already getting annoying, but Patsy gritted her teeth in an approximation of an agreeable smile and nodded.

‘As much as you like all day, as long as there isn’t anyone there except you and me. If Mr or Mrs Gethin, or the Vicar, heard you saying it you’d be in big trouble. So only when we’re completely on our own. And _only_ as long as you’re wearing your best dress. Alright?’

‘Alright Bossy Bum Bum!’

Grace seemed entirely satisfied with the deal, and kept up a steady stream of ‘Bossy Bum Bum’-ing all the time Patsy was attempting to brush and re-plait her hair for her. It made it very difficult to resist the temptation to tug deliberately on the tangles just to get her to say something else (even if it was only ‘ouch!’), but with saintly patience she managed to stick to silent retaliation, calling Grace all the bad names _she_ knew (worse names than ‘bum’, that was for sure) inside her head until she was finished.

Thankfully Grace took a break from her chanting after that and went to play a muttered game with Kitty while Patsy tackled her own hair.

She managed the left side alright, but when she tried to brush the right half it pulled horribly and sent a stab of pain through her cut forehead so bad that she dropped the brush and cried out, clapping a hand over her temple.

‘Ow ow _ow_ ’.

‘Don’t be a baby Bossy Bum, it’s just a little hair brush!’

‘Bossy Bum’ aside, this was what Maud (and alright, Patsy too) always said to Grace when she complained about having her hair brushed, and it was galling to have it turned back on her – especially when it was the cut that hurt, not the tangles.

She brushed very slowly and carefully after that, and although it still smarted with every stroke, she bit her lip hard to stop herself making any more pained sounds. Her right side plait was much looser and more uneven than the left when she’d finished, but if she plaited too tightly it made her head throb. It would have to do.

When at last they got downstairs (going down very, very slowly, hanging onto the wall all the way so they wouldn’t fall), everything seemed too quiet.

Mrs Gethin wasn’t in the parlour (or the room that Patsy supposed must _be_ a parlour, although it didn’t look a bit like the ones in any of the houses they had lived in), or the kitchen, or even outside at the chopping block, when Patsy worked up the nerve to peek round the door and check. There didn’t seem to be anyone else here at all.

They must have slept in so late that the Gethins had gone to church without them.

They had never been home all by themselves before. Even when Mama went out, Mrs Durrant was always there in case of a real emergency (although she didn’t like to be bothered for anything less dire than blood, fire or broken bones).

It was scary, but a bit exciting too. If they were on their own that meant that Patsy was the grown up. Not just the little Mama who had to look after Grace and still do as she was told herself, but the real grown up who was properly in charge. It made her feel brave and important.

Brave enough even to walk right past the little red stained patch where Rabbit-Agnes had been cut up to get to the awful outdoor WC.

Grace was more reluctant, but she was hopping from foot to foot now so there was nothing for it, though she made her feelings plain by continuing to shriek ‘Bossy Bum!’ the entire time she was weeing in the horrible, dark, smelly little WC.

Once they were back inside, Patsy tried to think what to do next. The insistent growling in her stomach told her it was long past breakfast time, but did she really dare help herself? What if the Gethins got home from church and were furious?

But there was no way of telling how long they’d be. If they were hours and hours they couldn’t possibly wait that long – surely Mrs Gethin would know that…

Screwing up her courage, Patsy pulled open first one cupboard, then another, looking for anything she might be able to make. There was a bag of oats, which she knew you used to make porridge, but _how_ did you? Did you just have to heat them up to make them going all mushy and creamy? Or did you add something else? She didn’t know how to turn on the stove anyway, so maybe porridge was a bad idea.

She _did_ know where Mrs Gethin kept the bread, and the dripping too, because she had got both out for their supper the night before. Could they have that? It would be a strange sort of breakfast, but at least it was simple to make, and wouldn’t involve any cooking.

Grown ups made slicing bread look like the easiest thing in the world – you just pressed it with the knife, and neat pieces came off, like breaking pieces of cake off a slice with the edge of your fork. Only it turned out not to be quite so simple. Patsy held the bread knife tight in one hand (a bit nervously, because it was very big and sharp, easily big enough to cut off a finger if she slipped) and pressed it against the loaf, but nothing happened. She pressed harder, and the bread squashed down a little at the end, but still didn’t cut.

How had Mrs Gethin done it? Did she sort of… wiggle the knife, rather than holding it steady? Like cutting steak instead of cake? Patsy sawed experimentally. It was a messy process, crumbs showering over the counter and onto the floor as she dragged the knife back and forth through the tough loaf, but she was making progress. The finished slice was crumbly and wedge shaped – thick at the top and tapering to a narrow point at the end, and looked very different to the thin white triangles of bread she was used to at home.

The next slice was no better, and Patsy’s wrist was beginning to hurt a bit from sawing away at the hard bread, but she had still done it all by herself, and felt a twinge of pride at her accomplishment. Spreading the dripping was a bit difficult too – it clumped and stuck to the crumby bits, and the bread broke apart if you pressed too hard at the thin end. It took a bit of experimentation with knives and spoons (and even fingers) to find the best way to get it from pot to bread, but eventually they each had a reasonably satisfactory slice.

They were both so hungry after their no-lunch-meagre-supper day yesterday that neither of them actually cared much how it looked anyway, and wolfed down their slices hungrily before they had even found plates for them. Grace didn’t whinge about the hard crusts, or try to lick at the spread like a cat lapping milk, just tucked in with big bites.

She looked hopefully at the last remnants of the loaf, licking the dripping on her lips. Patsy was tempted too, but there wasn’t very much bread left now, and Mrs Gethin might be cross if they finished all of it.

‘No, we’d better not have any more just now’.

‘Oh _Bossy Bum_ , you’re so mean!’

‘I’m _not_ , I just think-’

‘ _WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’_

Patsy jumped at the sudden shout, dropping the heel of loaf she had been about to put away onto the floor.

Mrs Gethin stood framed in the doorway, still wearing her nightie and a tatty old dressing gown.

‘Oh Mrs Gethin, I thought-’

But she didn’t let her finish.

Mrs Gethin crossed the room in three strides and cuffed the back of Patsy’s head, then seized her by the ear, pinching hard and shaking her so that it felt as though the ear might tear right off.

‘Ow, ow, stop! _Please_ stop!’

‘How DARE you sneak down here and help yourself to my food, you greedy little madam? After all the kindness I showed taking you both in, and the _assurances_ I was given that you were well behaved little girls who didn’t eat much!’

‘We weren’t sneaking- _owow, please-_ we thought you’d left for church already and-’

‘A likely story! Who sets off for Chapel at the crack of dawn for heaven’s sake? No, you knew exactly what you were doing, and telling lies will only make it worse!’

She gave a particularly savage shake, and although Patsy wanted to explain further her ear now hurt too much to focus on anything else – the closest she could come to words was a whimper as the hot pain jabbed through her head.

When it felt as though the ear really _must_ be ripping clean off, Mrs Gethin finally let go and snatched the end of bread up from the floor instead, clutching it so tightly that her knuckles went white with rage.

‘You come down here before anyone else is awake, steal my bread, make the most disgraceful mess, throw good food on the ground, and now you’re lying about it. If it wasn’t the Lord’s day I’d give you both such a strapping, you’d never dare say boo again’.

She glared from Patsy – clutching her sore ear and cowering, to Grace, who was crouched in a little ball with her arms up over her head to ward off attacks on _her_ ears. She seemed at a loss for what to do with them, and they all stayed frozen for a moment in a tableau of misery; before Mrs Gethin gave a sharp sigh and snatched up a cloth, swiping irritably at the crumbs and smears left by their attempt at breakfast. There seemed to be rather a lot more of them now than Patsy had realised at the time.

‘Don’t stand there gawping. Get outside to the tap and wash your filthy hands and faces, then you can both go and stand facing the wall until it’s time for Chapel. It’ll give you time to think about what wicked, sinful children you are and pray for God’s forgiveness. Go on!’

The morning passed interminably after that, Patsy and Grace standing at opposite ends of the parlour with their faces to the wall, while in the next room they could hear the sounds of breakfast going on without them.

Grace cried steadily for a while, but Patsy didn’t dare move even to comfort her, in case they really would get strapped. She felt a bit like crying herself actually. Her forehead still hurt, and now her ear did too, and her hair was all wet from where she’d tried to wash the blood out under the splashy outdoor tap. Little rivulets of chilly water kept running down to soak the collar of her best dress, so she became increasingly uncomfortable as she stood there. It was boring too, with nothing to do or look at but the wall. She wondered wistfully what the Gethins were having for breakfast. Bacon and fresh bread, followed by chocolate cake?

Probably not.

But proper porridge maybe – hot and creamy and with big spoons of jam on. Or an egg with a runny golden yolk and buttery toast… her mouth watered. She wasn’t feeling really starving anymore, not after the thick slice of bread and dripping, but it didn’t feel like a proper breakfast all the same, and it seemed like _forever_ since they’d had any real, hot food.

It was another forever (a long, long forever of achey legs and eyes going crossed from staring at the wall right in front of her face) before finally Mrs Gethin came to fetch them. She inspected them critically, her mouth a tight line.

‘What are you wearing?’

‘Our… our Church dresses’.

‘They’re a mess. What have you _done_ to them? Anyway, they’re much too fancy. Everyone will think you’re above yourself, trying to act better than you ought. It isn’t right for little charity waifs to go lording it over ordinary hard working folk as if you’re better than us. You’re _not_ better, do you understand?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Good. Then get them off at once and put on something sensible’.

‘But we haven’t got anything else. Only these and what we had on yesterday’.

‘I’m not going to argue with you child. Get that dress off this instant before I take it off you myself. I will not have you showing us up. You’re not a grand lady now Missy. Or do I have to smack some sense into you?’

Patsy flinched, as if Mrs Gethin really had smacked her. She grabbed Grace’s hand and fled for the stairs before she could change her mind and do it for real, not even slowing to tackle the terrifyingly steep ascent.

After all the struggle needed to get Grace into her best dress, it was just as hard getting her out again (no Bossy Bum, I don’t want to wear my smelly old dress! BOSSY BOSSY BUMMY BUM BUM!’), but eventually they were both back in yesterday’s clothes. They looked even worse on than they had when she’d picked them up earlier – the cuffs grey with dirt and the skirts almost as creased as those they had just taken off.

Patsy thought about their visits to church with Mama and Daddy; all of them dressed immaculately in their very best clothes, freshly washed and pressed the night before, their shoes polished to a shine and fresh ribbons fluttering from the ends of their plaits. They didn’t look a bit like that now. Would they even be allowed into church looking such a mess? Perhaps the Vicar would turn them away at the door, and they would have to stand outside with their faces turned to the stone walls in disgrace.

She worried about this all the long walk to church, her cheeks burning as they passed other parishioners in their Sunday Best walking in the same direction. They all looked much neater than she did, even though their clothes were poor, cheaper kinds and sometimes had patches or darns. _Patsy’s_ dress had come from Harrods, and yet she looked shabbier and untidier than ever, because in addition to her rumpled, grubby clothes, Mrs Gethin had insisted on undoing her plaits and brushing one side of her hair so far forwards that it half covered her face. It _did_ mostly hide the bruise on her temple, but it also made her look as if she hadn’t bothered to tidy her hair before coming out. It was irritating too, and Patsy kept forgetting that it was meant to be hiding her bump, so she would reach up to brush the tickly strands out of her eyes only to have Mrs Gethin slap her hand back down. After the third of fourth time this happened, Mr Gethin (who was hardly less frightening in person than he had been through the floor last night) seized her wrist and hissed that if she didn’t stop messing about with her hair then he’d shave it all off for her before the day was done.

She kept her fists very firmly clenched around her skirt after that, so that she couldn’t forget and reach for her hair again.

Patsy entered the church with her head low and cheeks burning scarlet, but thank goodness the Vicar didn’t even seem to notice them as they filed past him.

They didn’t sit in the front pew like they did at home. They found a space towards the back, squashed up close with more people that looked like the Gethins, many with anxious looking children in tow that Patsy assumed must be yet more evacuees. None of the people sharing their pew seemed to pay Patsy or Grace any more attention than the Vicar had, and actually, quite a few of the children looked worse off than her when it came to clothes. There were children with no proper shoes, just plimsolls with holes in the toes, or badly patched jerseys, or dresses that clearly hadn’t been washed for much longer than just the last two days. It was still a bit embarrassing to be part of this shabby group, but at least if they _did_ get told off over it, she and Grace would not be the only ones.

The service itself was reassuringly familiar, following the same pattern of prayers and hymns that they had at home, so it was easy enough to work out when to stand or sit or kneel even when she couldn’t understand exactly what the Vicar was saying in his strong accent. Now that she was getting used to it, Patsy found she actually rather liked sitting at the back. In the front pew they had been right under the Vicar’s nose, and even if she’d been sitting very still, she’d felt sure he could see right into her head and knew whenever her attention wandered from the sermon. Back here he couldn’t possibly see her over the heads of the taller people in front, and although she still had the Gethins beside her who would notice if she fidgeted, it felt safer than it ever had at home to let her eyes roam around the high ceiling and carved pillars of the little church.

She was starting to feel almost relaxed – finally doing something familiar that she knew she wasn’t going to get wrong – when the opening bars of ‘Day by Day the Manna Fell’ started up on the ropey old piano they had in place of a proper organ. That particular hymn always reminded her of Mama, because when she was a little girl she had thought they were singing ‘the _Mama_ fell’. Whenever they sang it she would watch her own Mama very carefully until the song was finished in case she might suddenly fall over, her little hands spreading out ready to catch her, though she wouldn’t have been anywhere near strong enough.

As they sang the first line Patsy’s head turned automatically to search for her mother, but of course Mama wasn’t there, just Mr and Mrs Gethin, and then a sea of strangers beyond them. She felt a wave of homesickness break over her then, and her mouth dried up so she couldn’t sing the tune properly. She just had to open and close her mouth silently, pretending, until the hymn was over and she could sit down again.

She wanted to go _home_.

She wanted to go home so _badly_ that at first she didn’t notice how the atmosphere had changed suddenly, until it began to dawn on her that the room was much quieter than it should have been. The Vicar had climbed down from the pulpit and was over by the Vestry door, listening intently to someone standing just on the other side of it. The whole congregation sat in hushed, attentive silence as if they were listening too, though no whisper of what was being said could possibly carry so far.

What had she missed, in the bit where she had been thinking about Mama instead of what was being said? It felt uncomfortably like when the teacher asked a question you hadn’t listened to at school, knowing that you couldn’t answer and desperately hoping not to be picked. Patsy hunched down as low as she dared in her seat, even though it wasn’t very likely that she would be called upon to say anything in _church_.

When at last the Vicar returned to his usual place his expression was grim. He didn’t start picking parishioners to answer sums or geography questions (or even questions about the bible) thank goodness, but he didn’t return to the sermon either. He climbed very slowly back to the pulpit, lifting each foot wearily as if he had to pull it free from sucking mud at every step. He gripped the edges of the railing very tightly with both hands, and announced solemnly:

‘We are at war’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger points:  
> Children being shouted at/about and generally feeling frightened/unsafe  
> Children being hit (a single smack round the head for Patsy and being grabbed by the ear/shaken)  
> Threats of worse punishment (threatening to strap them, threatening to cut Patsy’s hair off if she doesn’t stop playing with it)  
> They are also punished by making them stand facing the wall for quite a while without breakfast (but they have already eaten some bread at that point so are not starving).  
> I think that should be all.
> 
> Chapter synopsis for if you don’t want to read about the above:  
> Patsy dreams about an idealised version of home, then wakes up to hear Mr Gethin for the first time, shouting at his wife because he doesn’t want to have evacuees. He calms down when she mentioned the money, Patsy eventually goes back to sleep. When she wakes again she thinks they have overslept and the Gethins have gone to church without them, so attempts to make breakfast for her and Grace and makes a mess with the bread. It is actually very early, and they get in trouble for ‘stealing’ food so have to stand facing the wall until it’s time to go to church. They aren’t allowed to wear their best dresses as they are ‘too fancy’ and would look like showing off. At church they find out war has been declared.


	14. Patsy - pt 2 of 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should be fairly safe in terms of child mistreatment triggers, but again, see content note at the end if you want to

The silence broke instantly into dozens of murmured conversations and scattered gasps and moans.

Patsy looked around, confused. Had she heard him right? The war had started right now, this very minute?

How did he  _ know _ ?

Had the person in the  V estry come running in from the village to tell him that there were Germans outside, advancing on the church? Would the door be broken down any minute, and men with guns come marching in to shoot them all? Or was it bomber planes approaching over the horizon? Should she put her gas mask on? Or hide under the pew? If the war really had started and they might all be about to die at any minute, why was everyone just sitting there? Shouldn’t they be running? Or hiding, or doing  _ something _ ?

The Vicar kept talking, but Patsy couldn’t even try to listen, she just sat rigid and strained to hear the first sounds of explosions, or gunfire. 

It was quite warm in the church, but she found she was shaking so badly that her teeth chattered.

When at last the service was over, there was a surge for the door. No one seemed to be walking any faster than usual, but no one was standing around to chat to friends or pass the time of day with the Vicar either. As one the congregation strode purposefully homeward, on their own or in little huddles with family or neighbours, all talking intently as they walked.

Mr and Mrs Gethin seemed to have forgotten all about Patsy and Grace, hurrying out without so much as a glance in their direction, so they had to scramble quickly down from their bench and hobble on pins-and-needles feet as fast as they could after them or lose them altogether.

They were half way along Chapel Street before they managed to catch up, and when they did Mrs Gethin turned to stare at them in astonishment.

‘What are _you_ doing here?’

‘ We live with you Mrs Gethin’.

Mr Gethin snorted rudely at this and shook his head (shook it to say no they didn’t live with them? Had they left them behind at church on purpose, because they were getting rid of them?).

But Mrs Gethin explained, though she still sounded sharp.

‘We know that. But you’re to stay for Sunday school after Chapel, of course. Didn’t you _have_ Sunday school back home? And here were we thinking you were such fine _ladies_ , flouncing around with your fancy dresses and mealy mouths. Turns out you’re not so much better than the rest of us after all’.

Patsy wasn’t sure what to say to that. It stung, because they hadn’t said anything at all to the Gethins to suggest they thought they were better than them – they had been too scared since their arrival to say more than a few words together most of the time, even to answer direct questions. It wasn’t _their_ fault that they had nicer dresses than people round here, or that they’d been taught to speak properly.

‘ Now, turn round and march yourselves back to that  C hapel this instant, and don’t let me see hide nor hair of you until... lets see, 2-' she paused and glanced at Mr Gethin '-no, make it 4pm at the earliest. Go on’.

‘ But what if there’s bombs? The Vicar said the war had started, so there  _ might  _ be bombs’.

‘ Well then, Mrs Gethin and I would get our spare room back wouldn’t we?’

‘ _ Oh!’ _

Mr Gethin was grinning down at them, but it was a horrible, leary grin, as if he was imagining them getting bombed into little pieces right that minute, and thought it was  _ funny _ .

‘ Oh, c lose your mouth before you start catching flies. Can’t you kids take a joke? Of  _ course _ you won’t get bombed, and even if you did, the chapel’s the safest building for miles with them thick stone walls. Now hop off to Sunday school like good little girlies and leave the Missus and I in peace, would you?’

So they had to trail back the way they’d come, up the now-empty street to the church. There was no one else around when they got there, not even the Vicar, and Patsy started to worry that they must be terribly late.

Sure enough, the heavy wooden door was closed when they reached it.

Patsy knocked.

Grace knocked.

They both took hold of the iron rings set in the doors and pulled at them. B u t it was no good. The church doors must have been locked after the service.

Was the Sunday school class locked in there, too far from the door to hear them knocking? Or was Sunday school held somewhere else? They looked around for clues (a trail of child sized footprints heading away from the church door? The tell tale sound of hymns coming from somewhere nearby? A big arrow saying ‘Sunday school this way?) but of course there was nothing, just the silent church yard behind them and the closed door in front.

‘ What are we going to  _ do _ ?’

It was ridiculous to imagine her four year old sister might actually have an answer to this question, but Patsy found herself looking to Grace hopefully all the same. She wanted to not be the one who had to work everything out anymore, not when every choice she had made since they got here had apparently been wrong anyway.

Grace considered seriously. For once she seemed to be the calmer of the two of them –  perhaps because she hadn’t been listening to the Vicar or understood what it meant for War to start, but whatever the reason, she looked composed, even as Patsy felt herself slipping into panic.

‘ _I_ know what we’ll do’.

‘ Yes?’

‘ We’ll play Orlando’.

Patsy gave a hysterical little laugh. She very nearly said ‘we can’t play Orlando’, just out of habit… but after all, _why_ couldn’t they? They couldn’t get into Sunday school, and she definitely didn’t want to go back to the Gethins and get told off for coming home early after being told to stay away until four. So why _not_ just stay in the empty church yard and play Orlando with Grace? If there were going to be bombs or soldiers, they’d come just the same whether they were playing or knocking forlornly on the church door trying to get in when there clearly wasn’t anyone there. So what difference would it make?

‘ Alright. But let's not go camping. Lets play… lets play Orlando and Grace go to outer space!’

It actually turned out to be quite a good game. As long as Patsy kept slipping cat references into their adventures Grace stayed happy, and the game could turn into something quite different from the usual boring camping trip that had to play out the same way every time (‘no Patsy, that’s not how this part goes! Orlando _doesn’t_ fall down a rabbit hole!’).

They started out in a specially designed cat shaped hot air balloon, and floated up and up, higher than any balloon ever had before, until they were bobbing about among the stars. They dodged meteors and burning hot suns, and visited lots of different planets. There was one with whole oceans made of cream (made more interesting by freezing parts of it into ice cream countries, where each one was a different flavour), another that was just a giant ball of wool hanging in the sky (populated by little knitted creatures and perilous knitting needle spikes that could jab suddenly out of the ground in front of them), a third that was like a giant round jelly, so they could bounce across the surface and scoop up great handfuls to snack on (Grace said it was fish flavour and Orlando-Patsy agreed, but real-Patsy imagined it was strawberry instead, because even pretend eating imaginary fish flavoured jelly was a bit icky).

On one planet they made friends with cat-like aliens and teamed up with them in a deadly battle against their dog-alien enemies, but they got captured and only just escaped before they were _eaten_. After that they jumped back into their hot air balloon and flew off, faster than it had ever flown before, only to find themselves in the middle of a space storm, with ice and rain and giant rocks coming at them from every direction.

They were sitting side by side on the grass, ducking and weaving in every direction to simulate dodging the storm, when it started raining for real. Just a light sprinkle at first, but then the rain began pouring down in sheets, and they had to abandon their hot air balloon and run for the only shelter they could see –  a solitary tree tree standing amidst the ancient headstones.

They were already soaked through by the time they made it to the trunk, their dresses sticking unpleasantly to their bare legs, and Patsy’s loose hair slicked to her head like an otter’s fur. They tried to make it part of the game, but the rain seemed to have washed away even Grace’s enthusiasm for pretending, so pretty soon they gave up and sat huddled together against the trunk, staring out at the downpour.

After a while there was a flash, followed almost immediately by a deep rumble so loud it was as if all other sound ceased.  E ven the splatter of rain was silenced for a moment, pausing its steady drumming to listen to the boom and growl of this all consuming noise.

Patsy knew perfectly well that it was just a thunderstorm, and she wasn’t a bit frightened of storms… but what if that was actually what bombs sounded like? There would be a big flash and bang when they exploded, wouldn’t there? They _might_ sound just like a storm, and it would be a sneaky trick for the Germans to start bombing just when it started raining, so everyone would think it was just thunder and be caught off guard.

She wished they could get into the church. Mr Gethin was right, she’d feel much safer inside its thick stone walls than under some flimsy tree branches. They’d even be safer in their horrible room at the Gethins, but it was much too far to run to if they really were being bombed already.

She hugged Grace close, trying to comfort her and be comforted, but Grace wriggled away.

‘ Stop it! You’re all  _ wet’ _ .

‘ Sorry…’

‘ Silly Patsy’.

Patsy nodded. She couldn’t explain to Grace that she wanted to hug her because she was afraid they were being bombed; then she would be frightened too, and what could they do about it? So she drew her soggy knees up to her chest and hugged them instead, and tried not to flinch too hard or cry out at each new flash and bang.

‘ Will you tell me one of your cat stories Grace? The one about the farm that Phyllis told us on the train?’

Grace looked surprised –  it was usually her begging Patsy for stories, not the other way around.  But s he nodded, looking pleased and important.

The story was a lot less coherent than when Phyllis told it, but it still helped a bit to hear about the gentle exploits of happy little kittens on a farm, where the biggest threat was accidentally falling in the pond and getting your fur wet, rather than being killed under a tree in the rain, miles and miles from home.

Patsy closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself into the warm, sunny, safe farm yard, even as she shivered in her wet dress and jumped every time there was a new bang. She was starting to believe they really were going to die there, when she became aware of a new sound out in the church yard. It was still a wet, s pl ashy sort of noise, but distinctly different to the falling rain, and coming closer. It was the regular splat-splat of someone running through puddles and wet grass towards them.

Grace stopped the story mid sentence, and Patsy opened her eyes to see a woman in an oversized macintosh and wellington boots making a dash for their tree. She ducked under the outer branches and peered in at them.

‘ Hello children. Are you alright in there?’

Patsy opened her mouth to answer, but hesitated.  _ Were _ they alright? She really wasn’t sure anymore. Grace had no such doubts however, and still buoyed by the success of her story telling, answered the woman proudly, her usual shyness forgotten for the moment.

‘ Yes we are. I’m telling a story about a cat and a horse and a chicken, and the cat  goes to -’

‘ That’s lovely dear. Isn’t it a bit wet to be out playing though? Shouldn’t you be safe at home getting ready for your Sunday lunch?’

Oh,  _ Sunday lunch _ . Crispy roast potatoes, tender slices of beef or pork, puddles of rich gravy…

But it didn’t seem likely that such things would be forthcoming at the Gethins’ house, even if they _were_ allowed to go back for it.

‘ We can’t go back until 4 o’clock. We were supposed to go to Sunday school, but we couldn’t find it’.

‘ But Sunday school doesn’t last  _ all day _ ! We’d be finished by now even if it was on today, which it isn’t, because of the announcement. Who told you to stay until four?’

‘ Mrs Gethin said…’

‘ Mrs  _ Gethin _ ? I didn’t realise the Gethins had volunteered to take any evacuees, I didn’t think they were quite… well, they don’t seem the sort’.

Patsy squirmed a little.

‘ I don’t think they volunteered  _ exactly _ …’

‘ I see… Well anyway, I expect they just made a mistake. Their two were never regular attendees at Sunday school, even when they were little. I expect they got mixed up with regular school hours and assumed ours would be the same. But why didn’t you at least go and wait inside the  C hapel, where it’s dry?’

‘ We tried, but the door’s locked so we couldn’t’.

‘Oh dear, yes. The doors are rather stiff aren’t they? But they’re not locked, we don’t ever actually _lock_ them. You’re welcome to go in any time, as long as you’re quiet and respectful and don’t use it as a place to run about and play in’.

There was another loud boom overhead, and the woman looked up worriedly.

‘ Never mind that now. I think you’d better come home to the rectory with me so we can get you dried off and warmed up, and then we can decide what to do next. It’s actually very dangerous to stand under a tree when there’s a storm you know; that’s why I came out to get you when I saw you through our window’.

The woman reached out to take their hands, and they ran together through the downpour to a little stone built house just outside the church yard.

Inside, Patsy and Grace stood dripping on the door mat while the woman hung up her mac and set her wellingtons in a corner to dry, revealing the smart skirt and blouse set she must have had on for church that morning.

She told them to wait there, then hurried off up the stairs, leaving them alone in the hallway.

They didn’t really mind. It was deliciously warm inside compared to their tree, and what they could see of the rest of the house looked friendly and inviting. Everything was a bit worn and faded, and the furnishings were simple, but it all looked comfortable. It was maybe even nicer than what they had at home, because it looked like you could actually use everything without being told off for disarranging the cushions, or leaving finger marks to spoil the high polished gleam of a surface.

There were various bible images hanging on the walls, but other things too –  a painting of boats on a lake, and a bunch of real dried flowers that had been pressed and put in a frame. Through an open doorway they could see high backed armchairs with broderie anglaise covers over the arms and backs, and a cheerful fire crackling in a grate, even though it was only September. It was all very pleasant, and Patsy found herself wishing they had been evacuated here instead.

She wished it even harder when the woman returned with a stack of towels in her arms  and a big smile on her face .

‘ Pop those wet dresses off and wrap yourselves up in these towels, then you can come and sit in the warm. I’ll wring the dresses out for you and we’ll hang them up by the fire to try and dry them out a bit. How does that sound?’

It sounded good, and felt even better to peel the sodden fabric from their shivering limbs and wrap the warm, dry towels around themselves instead. The woman ushered them gently through to the room they had seen from the door, and encouraged them to sit in the two chairs closest to the fireplace to warm up, while she went to see about some tea.

A few minutes later she was back, carrying a tray with a teapot, three cups, and a little plate of pink wafer biscuits. She drew up another chair beside theirs, settling in comfortably before she began.

‘ Now then. Now we’re out of the rain, I think we ought to get to know each other a little, don’t you? My name’s Sioned  Jenkins , my husband is the Vicar here. What are your names? Have you come from London?’

‘ I’m Patsy, my sister’s Grace. We were in London until Friday, but Mama sent us away because-’

She stopped. It suddenly occurred to Patsy that ever since the announcement this morning, she had been worrying about the wrong thing. Of _course_ the bangs outside were just thunder here. They had been sent to the country because it was the _cities_ that would be in danger when the war started.

But that didn’t mean the Germans weren’t here.

Were they in London right now? Was Mama getting bombed this very minute? She could already have died, and they wouldn’t know anything about it – and here was Patsy just worrying about _herself_!

She gave a little sob, clapping her hand to her mouth in horror at the awful thought.

‘ Oh dear. Are you feeling very homesick?’

‘ Y-yes. But I’m also afraid that-’ she glanced at Grace, who was already tucking happily into a pink wafer and kicking her bare legs under her towel ‘-that a  _ b- o- m- b  _ might have hit our house. Our Mama is still in London, so she might be-’

She didn’t finish the thought, it was too awful even to spell out the letters, but Mrs  Jenkins knew what she meant.

‘ You mustn’t worry about your Mam sweetheart. I’ve had the wireless on constantly since eleven o’clock, and there hasn’t been any bombing reported so far, not anywhere in the country’.

‘ _ Really?’ _

‘ Truly. Your Mammy is quite safe, and so are you’.

‘Oh _thank_ you Mrs Jenkins!’

‘ You’re welcome dear... Tell me Patsy, how are you settling in with Mr and Mrs Gethin? Do you like it there?’

‘ Well…’

It was a difficult question. She didn’t want to lie and say she liked it very much, but it also felt horribly rude to tell the absolute truth. Would she be told again that she should be grateful for whatever she was given, now that she was an evacuee?

‘ It’s very…  _ different’ _ .

Her attempt at tact was ruined however, because it seemed that Grace was listening after all, and she piped up indignantly at this.

‘ It’s  _ horrid _ ! We aren’t allowed anything to eat and when Patsy got us some bread because we were  _ starving _ , Mrs Geth hit her on the head and tried to pull her ear  _ right off _ . She cried and cried, and I did too, but Patsy cried more even though she’s the biggest’.

‘ Oh  _ goodness _ ! Is that right Patsy?’

Patsy could see that Mrs  Jenkins was  eyeing the cut on her forehead from where she’d fallen against the table the day before, and the look on her face said clearly that she thought it was the result of the ‘hit on the head’ Grace had mentioned.

She should have explained what had really happened… but after all, what Grace said was _sort of_ true (although she _hadn’t_ cried more. Grace cried heaps more than she did), and maybe if Mrs Jenkins thought they were being really, really badly treated (and they _were_ ) then they’d be allowed to stay here instead.

‘She _did_ hit me. And she only gave us half a slice of bread each all yesterday, _and_ said we weren’t allowed breakfast this morning…’

It was all absolutely true, although they _had_ already eaten a thick slice of bread each by the time they were denied breakfast. But Mrs Gethin probably would have said they couldn’t have any anyway.

‘ How terrible, you poor children! I think you’d better stay and have lunch with us, and then I’ll walk you home and have a little chat with Mrs Gethin to remind her of her  C hristian duty. Don’t worry dears, we’ll get it all sorted out’.

Patsy still _was_ worried. She had hoped Mrs Jenkins might just invite them to live with her instead, and then they’d never have to go back at all except to fetch their things. The offer to come and talk to Mrs Gethin was not nearly as comforting… but they had the proper lunch to look forward to first, so she was able to push the rest out of her mind for now and focus on the good smells already wafting in from the kitchen.

Mrs  Jenkins looked at the clock, and then clapped her hands, giving them both a too-bright smile.

‘ Now then. Why don’t we have a rummage through the donation box and see if we can’t find you something to wear until your own dresses are dry enough to put on? There’s still half an hour or so before lunch will be ready, so once we’ve got you decent you can go up and play with our own evacuees for a while’.

‘ _ You  _ have evacuees?’

‘ Oh yes, we’ve got two from London, same as you, and then there’s our own little niece too,  c ome from Cardiff. Her mother didn’t like the thought of them being all alone in the city, so she’s come to keep house for us with her Elsie for the duration. We’re quite bursting at the seams!’

‘ Oh…’

With three children and an adult evacuee here already, it was obvious that Patsy and Grace wouldn’t be invited to stay, no matter what the Gethins did to them.

‘ Don’t look so downhearted, we’ll still have plenty of lunch for you too! We do country portions here, so there’s always enough to go round. Lets search out those clothes now, shall we?’

Mrs  Jenkins brought through an arm load of clothes and  t hey picked carefully through every donated item, but there wasn't actually much to choose from. There was one grown up’s dress, a couple of men’s shirts with worn elbows, a big woollen jumper, a tiny little vest and knitted bonnet meant for a baby, and a shirt and short trousers meant for a boy.

Mrs  Jenkins tried the dress on Patsy, but it was so big that the neck hole slipped right off both shoulders and exposed her chest, and it bunched up ridiculously on the floor. It was worse than just wearing her towel, and in the end Mrs  Jenkins decided she’d better wear the boys’ shirt and shorts.

‘ After all, no one outside the house will see you in them, and at least you’ll be decently covered’.

The outfit was actually quite a good fit –  the short trousers were perhaps a  _ bit  _ big, coming down well past her knees and gaping a little at the waist, but Mrs  Jenkins found her some braces to wear over them, and then they were fine. Patsy stared at herself in the reflection of the china cabinet. She looked so  _ weird _ , dressed up like a boy, but with her long hair still hanging loose around her shoulders. She actually rather liked the shorts though –  they felt comfortably practical, and had deep pockets she could thrust her hands right in to. Wearing them made her feel a bit self conscious, but she thought she could quite easily get used to it, if such things were allowed.

Grace’s outfit was harder. There wasn’t anything at all in her size, not even boys’ shorts. The baby vest was obviously much too small, but everything else was huge on her. In the end she had to wear the jumper on its own with the sleeves rolled over and over and pushed up to let her hands peek out. It came nearly down to her ankles so she was properly covered up too, but she looked even more comical than Patsy.

They grinned at each other and giggled a bit.

‘ Not perfect I’ll admit, but at least you’re both warm and dry, and decent to have lunch  with Mr Jenkins  without need for blushes’.

Patsy remembered her manners then and said quickly ‘yes, thank you so much Mrs  Jenkins , we’re ever so grateful. Say thank you too Grace’.

‘ Thank you too Grace!’

Patsy frowned, but Mrs  Jenkins just smiled and gave a little chuckle ‘aw, the pet. She’s certainly cheered up now hasn’t she!’

They helped Mrs  Jenkins put the rest of the clothes away, and then their host went to the bottom of the stairs to call the other children down.

‘ Ca roline , Jonathan, Elsie!’

Three curious faces peered down at them from the stairs –  two pale cheeked with matching blonde curls, one tanned and rosy with chestnut brown plaits.

‘ Ah, there you are! I want you to meet Patsy and Grace. They’re going to stay for lunch, so I’d like you to take them upstairs to play until it’s ready, while I go and have a little talk with Mr  Jenkins . Sunday games only please, nothing too rowdy’.

‘ Yes Mrs  Jenkins ’.

The children spoke very politely to their host, and didn’t say anything at all about the girls’ strange appearance. Not _then,_ anyway.

Patsy and Grace followed the three rectory evacuees into a sparsely furnished but comfortable room. It had contained two beds, a chest of drawers and a big bookshelf. That was all the furniture, but there were more pictures on the walls, and the bottom part of the bookshelf was stacked with games and jigsaw puzzles. It looked a much nicer place to live than their own damp, dark little room.

The second the door was shut the three children broke their meek silence and began to question them, all talking at once.

‘ Who are you then?’

‘ Why are you staying for lunch?’

‘ Why are you wearing those  od d clothes?’

‘ Is auntie rescuing you from a gutter? Did she catch you  _ stealing _ ?’

Even this last question was posed with such friendly curiosity that it was impossible to be properly offended. Patsy explained their situation as best she could, Grace chipping in from time to time with exaggerated details about how awful everything was at the Gethins, until the three of them were staring with open mouths.

‘I’m jolly glad _I_ wasn’t sent to live with the Gethins’.

‘Yes, I thought it was bad enough that Mrs Jenkins said we have to go to chapel again after lunch, and maybe even _again_ in the evening, and do all this praying and washing in between times. But I’d rather stay in church all day long than get locked up in the dark and have my head cut open by some old witch’.

‘ Me too’.

‘ Yes, poor you! You can play with our Noah’s ark if you want though. Look, it’s got all these real wooden animals in it, and you two can have first pick to play with’.

‘ _ I  _ wanted to play cowboys, but Mrs  Jenkins told us it wasn’t a Sunday game, so we’re playing silly old Noah’s ark instead. Although the flood part is quite good fun, when all Carrie’s peg dolls drown horribly’.

The blonde girl gave her brother a shove at this, then said to Patsy

‘ You’re lucky you just have a sister, brothers are so  _ ghoulish _ . John keeps making it so the lions get loose in the ark and try to eat all the other animals, and even  _ Noah _ ’ .

‘ Noah is delicious! Yum yum, tasty lion food!’

Carrie scowled, but little Elsie giggled. ‘It’s _funny_ when Johnnie makes the lions eat everyone! Only they have to do it quietly or auntie tells us off. Earlier he roared so loud that Uncle Aron thought he was badly hurt and came running from his study. He said Johnnie would have to be a little bunny rabbit instead if he couldn’t keep the lions quiet, so now they have to whisper-roar as if they have sore throats. So which animal would _you_ like to be?’

Grace picked the cats, of course (there wasn’t an Orange one to be Orlando, but she named the white on Blanche and the black one Tinkle, and seemed perfectly happy). Patsy was quite tempted by the lions herself, but Jo hn was  eyeing them hopefully and she didn’t want to start a squabble, so in the end she settled for a pair of brightly coloured birds. They were pretty with their blue and green feathers and neat orange beaks, but mostly she liked them because they had wings, so they could fly away whenever they wanted to and could never get trapped in a horrible place like she and Grace had. Even when the lions attacked the rest of the animals again (much to Carrie’s annoyance), Patsy’s birds could just flap their wings and circle high above the ark, safe from everything...

When lunch was announced, Patsy felt a bit anxious again. It was one thing wearing boys clothes in front of Mrs  Jenkins and the other children, but wearing them in front of a man, and a Vicar no less, felt especially strange.  Mrs J enkins must have warned his what to expect however, as he didn’t so much as raise his eyebrows at their odd outfits when they trooped down the stairs behind the other children. He smiled gently at them both and said quietly

‘You are very welcome  here , Patsy and Grace. Please take a seat and help yourselves to some orange squash’.

After he’d led them all in saying grace, Mrs J enkins served each of the children from the dishes in the middle of the table. Patsy noticed that she gave her and Grace bigger portions than Elsie or Carrie or even Jo hn , even though he was the oldest.  He clearly noticed, but didn’t say anything – just stared for a moment at their heaped plates before returning his eyes to his own meal. Patsy guessed he was remembering the tiny portions of bread that were all they’d been given with the Gethins, and had decided not to object.

T he first bite of roast potato was t he best thing she had ever eaten . They were cooked to perfection, each one fluffy and soft inside, with wonderfully crisp outsides  that had been sprinkled lightly with salt to make them even tastier . The lamb was  wonderful too –  tender and savoury  and bursting with flavour so that every forkful made her want to cry with gratitude. E ven the vegetables (hot and smothered in gravy as they were) seemed like a delicious treat after nothing but bread and  stale  buns all yesterday, and no hot food at all since before they left London.

She ate and ate,  pausing only to sip her squash from time to time, and felt herself getting properly filled up for the first time in days. Beside her, Grace was equally enthusiastic. She even ate her carrots up unprompted, and only scowled a little when Patsy nudged her to eat the runner beans as well.  They both cleared their plates, although they weren’t used to having such a big meal even at home. They thought that must be it, but after the main course was cleared, Elsie’s mother went out into the kitchen and brought back a treacle tart, with a jug of thick cream to pour over the top. The tart was even better than the roast had been – so good that it was difficult not to pick up the dish and lick round it after they’d finished.

T hey sat back in their seats with happy sighs.

‘Thank you so much for the wonderful lunch Mr and Mrs J enkins . And thank you too ma’am’.

She added this last to Elsie’s mother (who had been the one to actually cook the meal after all) as she wasn’t sure what to call her. Mrs J enkins called her Martha, but it seemed overly familiar for Patsy to do likewise. 

She dimpled at them pleasantly, clearly pleased to be acknowledged.

‘You can call me Mrs J ones dear. I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Tell you what, why don’t I wrap up a couple of slices of this treacle tart to take home with you too. Would that be alright Sioned?’

‘I think that would be an excellent idea. And there’s some  bara brith fresh made too, I  believe ? Why don’t you make the girls up a little parcel to take away with them, while I see if their dresses are dry. Patsy, Grace, you two come with me. The rest of you children, I’d like you to clear the table please’.

When they followed Mrs J enkins into the parlour they found their dresses hanging up near the fire, looking much better than the last time they had seen them. They were clean now, and the crumples were completely gone, so they hung properly when they pulled them on. They were still a tiny bit damp, but it was a warm dampness from having been by the fire for so long, and it felt a million miles away from the cold, sodden cloth it had been when they’d arrived.

Mrs J enkins surveyed them, looking pleased.

‘That’s better isn’t it? I had Martha give them a quick wash and put them through the mangle to help get them properly dry, and it looks like she’s run an iron over them for you as well. I must say, they look like very nice dresses!’

They  _ were _ nice dresses, but Patsy found she was surprisingly reluctant to part with her shirt and short trousers. She had grown used to them over the course of the afternoon, and rather wished she could keep them. It would be impossible of course.  S he wouldn’t ever be allowed to wear them, and anyway, they were charity clothes for poor people, and she _ wasn’t  _ poor.  But all the same...

The rain had stopped now, so Mrs J enkins said they’d better set off so that she could be home again in time for the afternoon service. Patsy and Grace said an extremely reluctant goodbye to  Elsie, Carrie and John, then followed her out the door.

They were both quiet on the walk back to the Gethins’, Patsy and Grace walking hand in hand in shared trepidation while Mrs J enkins strolled beside them, pointing out this or that local landmark, and telling them all about the village and its history. Patsy thought she hadn’t noticed that neither of them were really joining in, but just before they reached the Gethins’ gate, she paused, and stooped down to speak seriously to them.

‘Now then girls, I’m going to speak to Mr and Mrs Gethin when we get in, and I’m going to do my best to get them to see that things need to change around here. I want both of you to try very hard too, to be good and fit in even though it feels very different to what you’re used to. I hope that this is just a settling in period and things will get better, but I want us to talk again at Sunday school next week, and if things are still very bad for you, you need to tell me about it and I will do my best to find you a different billet, alright?’

‘Couldn’t you find us one now Mrs J enkins ? Please, please please?’

‘No dear, I’m afraid it won’t be as easy as that. There aren’t many people left who have room now, so you’d maybe have to go to a big group hostel, and it would take a little while to find somewhere. I think it would be best if you hung on here a little longer and tried to fit in first. Do you think you can do that for me?’

Patsy  _ didn’t  _ think they could, but she nodded mournfully all the same. She didn’t want Mrs J enkins to decide she was difficult and not want to help them  at all anymore.

‘Good girl. Come on then, we’d better go in’.

Mrs Gethin opened the door to their knocking with a severe frown, which melted into a slightly sickly smile when she saw Mrs Jenkins standing behind them.

‘Why, Mrs Jenkins! How kind of you to bring the girls home personally. Have they been disruptive in Sunday school? I’m so sorry they’ve put you to such trouble’.

This last was said with a glare at Patsy and Grace, and they shrank back against Mrs Jenkins as if Mrs Gethin’s eyes could shoot bullets at them, rather than mere disapproval. Mrs Jenkins put a steadying hand on each of their shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

‘No Mrs Gethin, I’m not here to complain. Patsy and Grace are delightful, well mannered little girls, and I’m sure they will be a pleasure to have in my class. I have brought them home because there _was_ no Sunday school class today, and the girls were under the impression that they wouldn’t be allowed back here until late this afternoon.

I wonder, could I come in for a little chat with you? And Mr Gethin too of course, if he’s at home’.

‘Well...’

Mrs Gethin clearly didn’t want to invite Mrs Jenkins inside, but she seemed to realise that there was no way to refuse without being unforgivably rude, so she conceded reluctantly.

‘Of course Mrs Jenkins, do come in’.

‘Thank you. Patsy, Grace, perhaps you could go upstairs and play in your bedroom for a little while, while we grown ups talk? There’s good girls’.

Patsy longed to hear what Mrs Jenkins would say, but she nodded anyway, and they climbed the stairs back to their bedroom. It was every bit as damp and bare and uninviting as it had been when they left it this morning, but somehow, looking at it with their stomachs properly full, their clothes feeling clean and fresh, and the knowledge that at least one grown up was on their side, things didn’t feel quite as hopeless as they had done.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger points:  
> I think the only thing this time is the fact that they get left alone at church for a while. The Gethins only feature in the first few paragraphs and the very end, and even then only in brief conversations. One implication from Mr Gethin that he wouldn't mind them being bombed, but he is joking (even if it isn't very funny to frightened 8 year old Patsy).


	15. Delia

Delia stood at the school gates in her freshly ironed school shirt and navy blue tunic, her school bag and gas mask case slung over one shoulder and the precious tin of biscuits clutched tight in front of her. There had seemed to be heaps of biscuits when she’d first peeped in the tin, but now, looking at the great crowds gathered in the playground, she thought she’d need a whole _wheelbarrow_ full of them if she was going to share with everyone, and even _then_ they might have to cut them in half.

Before she could decide quite how she should wade into this confusing sea of children, a small lady with a clipboard caught her eye over the heads of a gaggle of little four and five year olds and came trotting over.

Even if they hadn’t been in a school playground, Delia thought she would have known this lady was a teacher. She _looked_ like a teacher - as if she had the word embroidered into the fabric of her, like initials on a handkerchief. Just for a moment she actually thought it was Mrs Evans, her teacher from her old school, and did a double take.

Why would Mrs Evans be _here?_ Had she come all this way just to tell Delia off for playing truant from her class? Had she not realised she was going to a different school now?

On second glance though, the new lady maybe didn’t look _so_ much like her old teacher after all. She was a tiny bit shorter and rounder, her hair was curlier and her face was quite different. But her clothes were the same sort of skirt and blouse, and her hair was up in the same sort of bun. She moved the same way as Mrs Evans, and smiled the same way.

Maybe there was a special teacher factory, where they made them all just the same and shipped them out all around the country? Or did you just have to go to a special Teacher school before you were allowed to have your own class, to learn to walk the right way and find out what sort of clothes you were allowed to wear?

She even had the same sort of ‘talking to children’ voice that Mrs Evans had had. It wasn’t the _really_ annoying baby voice that some grown ups used, but she didn’t quite talk like you were a proper person either. Delia couldn’t decide exactly _what_ it was that made it different, but if you closed your eyes you would still be able to tell absolutely that she was talking to a child and not another grown up.

‘ Hello dear. Have you got your label?’

‘ My… label?’

Delia didn’t understand what she meant. Jam jars had labels, little girls on their first day at a new school did not. Did they? Was it perhaps something that was just normal here, and no one had remembered to tell her?

‘ Oh dear, have you lost it? That was a bit careless, but nevermind. Tell me which is your school and we’ll find out where you’re meant to go’.

‘ But  _ this  _ is my school. Nain already enrolled me, she said so!’

‘ Oh, you’re  _ Welsh _ ! I’m sorry, since I didn’t recognise you from around here I thought you must be one of the evacuees. It’s a bit chaotic this morning, we’re all at sixes and sevens! You’re staying with your Mamgu did you say? What’s her name?’

‘ Glynis  Parry ’.

‘Then you must be _Delia._ Glynis talks about you all the time! She’s always saying how proud she is of her little granddaughter. And you’re seven, is that right?’

‘ Seven and three quarters, Miss’.

‘ Ah, seven and three  _ quarters _ . Well, in that case, why don’t you go and stand over there by those railing, do you see? The other children your age are over there waiting to be sorted into their classes’.

Delia looked where the woman was pointed and nodded. There were quite a  _ lot  _ of other children over there,  not just her age but older and younger as well, all milling around or gathered in little groups . She thanked Mrs Almost- Evans briefly and hurried over in the direction she’d indicated, looking around for familiar faces as she went.

Marged  must either have been sent somewhere different, or hadn’t arrived yet , because she couldn’t  find her  anywhere in the crowd. She  _ did  _ see a few of the other local girls she sort of knew, but they were gathered together in a tight huddle, whispering in a way that looked very private and intense, and she could hardly just barge into the middle of it and ask what they were talking about.

She hovered on her own by the railings  instead , feeling a bit shy and out of place, and wishing that Cathy and Joyce had  grandparents here to be sent to stay with as well; when she spotted someone she knew.

A tall, thin girl, with short black hair that curled a little at the ends and big green-grey eyes, gazing pensively into the distance.

She stared.

Of course it couldn’t be.

It wasn’t…

But it  _ was _ .

She looked so _exactly_ like how Delia imagined Sara Crewe that it was all she could do not to call out ‘Sara!’ as she ran up to her. She settled for a big, bright smile instead.

‘Hello! My name’s Delia. I love your dress!’ (it was a very ordinary gingham, quite a lot like one Delia had back at Nain’s, but she had needed _something_ to say to excuse her sudden approach).

‘ Would you like a biscuit?’

She opened the tin and presented it to the Sara-girl with a flourish. In her imaginings this was always the start of a beautiful and instant best friendship, in which Sara would take the biscuit/jellybaby/toffee chew at once, and launch right into a story about a time she’d had something like it in India, or tell her that she simply must come round to her house and see Emily in exchange, or…  _ something _ .

In reality, the Sara-girl just blinked at her. She stared at the tin for a minute with a slightly horrified expression, as if it contained slugs and worms instead of Mam’s special sugary raisin biscuits. She took a very tiny step backward, and in a prim,  oddly accented voice that was all wrong for Sara, said:

‘ No thank you. My mother said I’m not supposed to’.

‘ Your mother knew I’d bring  _ biscuits _ ?’

The girl gave a most un-Sara-ish snort and shook her head like she thought Delia stupid.

‘ _Obviously_ not. But she said not to take sweets or things from country children, because you might not wash your hands properly, and since you all come from farms and places, they might have-’ she broke off for a moment and then whispered the next words ‘- _cow poo-_ on them’.

‘Why would I touch _cow poo_? And I _do_ wash my hands anyway!’

‘Well, my mother says country folk have a different idea of clean to us, because you’re not as civilised as we are. She said it would all be very primitive here so I mustn’t let standards slip. _And_ she was right. The place I’m staying at doesn’t even have an indoor _bathroom_! Just this awful, dark, spidery lav in the back garden’.

Delia had never stopped to wonder before whether London parents might have warned evacuees away from _her_ , not just the other way around. After all, why _should_ they? _She_ wasn’t dirty or rude or naughty (well, not _very_ naughty – hardly ever). She’d thought that the London children would be happy to make friends – grateful, even, that she wasn’t believing what everyone said about them straight off. But Not-Sara didn’t seem the least bit grateful.

‘She was _not_ right! _My_ Mam told me all you evacuees were slum children with bad manners and head lice and that _I_ wasn’t to play with _you_. And everyone else thinks so too, so there!’

They glared hard at each other over the still-open biscuit tin. Delia realised then that she was still holding it out, and slammed the lid back on, not feeling like sharing with Not-Sara anymore even if she  _ had  _ wanted one.

‘ Good! You keep your nasty cow poo biscuits!’

‘Fine, you keep _your_ nasty city nits then!’

‘ Poo hands!’

‘ Nit head!’

She didn’t _really_ think the other girl had nits at all (her hair looked perfectly clean and normal), she was just horrid and priggish, but it was so satisfying to have something to shout back at her that she didn’t care.

Things were starting to get heated enough to attract the attention of other children around them, local children and evacuees alike turning to watch as they faced off against each other. Pretty soon there would be a real crowd ringed around them, expecting a fight.

A dribble of uncertainty trickled through her anger then, cooling it just a little as she glanced at the curious faces in every direction.

Without her wanting it too, Mam’s voice slipped into her mind, shocked and sharply reproving as it told her how ashamed she was to see her getting into _another_ fight.

She hadn’t _been_ fighting last time, she had been playing lions and tamers. But if she got caught by a grown up now they probably _would_ call it a fight, and wouldn’t be exactly wrong, even if no one was hitting each other. She remembered the teacher on the gate saying how proud Nain was of her, and thought how sad and disappointed she’d be to find Delia had been unkind to an evacuee after promising so hard that she only wanted to make friends with them.

She thought about what it would be like to start school as the girl who had been fighting with a poor homesick evacuee on the very first day. No one would remember that she’d also brought biscuits for the whole class, or that she’d been talking to the girl in the first place because she was trying to make friends –  all they’d remember would be the shouting. No one would want to play with her after this, or eat their lunch with her or sit next to her in class. The teachers would all think she was a troublemaker, and maybe she’d even be  _ caned _ .

She took a deep breath and clenched her hands tight around the biscuit tin, trying to squash all the bad, angry feelings right down. They had started out wrong, but maybe not-Sara wasn’t so bad. Delia had very nearly believed some of the things she had been told about how terrible the evacuees were herself, so maybe Not-Sara had just listened to what her mother told her and believed it was true. She _might_ still be quite nice if she stopped believing about cow poo and not washing.

It took several more deep breaths before she could calm down enough not to call the girl more bad names, but at last, with supreme effort, she managed to stop scowling, and bring her voice back down to its normal volume.

‘What _is_ it like in London? Is it very different?’

Not-Sara looked a bit startled at the sudden change in tone –  startled enough that she stopped scowling too.

She shrugged.

‘I’ve never been to London. I’m from Birmingham, and it _is_ very different there’.

‘ Oh…’

Even after everything Delia had learned wasn’t true about the evacuees, it had never occurred to her that some of them might have come from any city other than London. It was deeply disappointing, but she tried not to let it show, determined to make friends.

‘ Well... I expect Birmingham is interesting too...  Is it ?’

‘It’s _brilliant_ , much better than here. It’s got proper shops and restaurants and things to do, for one thing. There’s a great big toy shop where you can buy _anything_. Any toy you can think of. And there’s lots of sweet shops and a huge posh cinema, and there’s always someone around to play with. There’s proper cars and buses everywhere too – I’ve hardly seen _any_ here, it’s like being in the olden days. It’s _especially_ like the olden days because you all wear such old fashioned clothes and have your toilets outdoors’.

‘Does _everyone_ in Birmingham have indoor toilets then?’

Delia had never heard of a town where  _ everyone _ had t oilets inside , even very poor people. But maybe there  _ weren’t _ any really poor people in Birmingham. It could be a town just for rich people – s he certainly made it sound very grand.

‘Well… not _everyone._ I suppose most people don’t. But anyway, _we_ have one. We have a lovely modern house and _I_ have my own room, and my school is heaps bigger than this pokey little place. And everyone talks normal there. You all sound so strange and use funny words so that I don’t understand half the time’.

Delia had been thinking the same thing about Not-Sara, but it didn’t seem tactful to say so just then, because the other girl was looking wistful and a bit sad now.

‘ It’s not bad here. There’s heaps of things to do and places to play, honestly. My Mam says there’s nothing you can find in a city that you can’t find just as good here, or something better’.

The girl gave another of her un-Sara-ish snorts, but didn’t actually argue back on this point. She was blinking a bit, as if she might be trying not to cry.

‘Oh dear… are you _sure_ you don’t want a biscuit? They’re clean honestly. My Mam made them, and she’s _very_ clean. She gets angry if I leave even the tiniest speck of dirt under my nails, she’d never, ever touch cow poo. We don’t live anywhere near a farm anyway, and these biscuits are the _best’_.

She lifted the lid again, and this time Not-Sara looked properly, taking in the plump raisins peeping through perfect golden biscuit, each one sprinkled generously with sugar. She was clearly wavering.

‘ Well…’

‘Your Mam won’t ever _know_ you had one’.

This did the trick. The girl took a biscuit and bit into it right away, showering crumbs down her dress.

Delia beamed at her, and she smiled back around her mouthful.

‘ Thanks Delia. I’m Pauline’.

The children around them had been losing interest as it became obvious that there wasn’t going to be a fight after all, but the biscuit exchange drew some of them back over, and in a moment Delia was the centre of a small crowd, all eager to introduce themselves.

‘ Hello, I’m Shirley-’

‘ I’m Vera-’

‘ Terence-’

‘ Daphne-’

‘ Ian-’

‘-Can _I_ have a biscuit?’

She was kept busy handing out the treats, the contents of her tin diminishing rapidly as word spread. She only just managed to salvage one rather crumbled one for herself, before the tin was emptied completely.

There was a brief, peaceful moment during which they all munched happily on their biscuits, before they were interrupted by the approach of a teacher.

‘ Where did you all get those biscuits from? You’re not supposed to be eating during class time!’

This seemed a bit unfair, since they weren’t actually _in_ class right at that moment, they were just waiting in the playground; but teachers always had funny ideas of what was and wasn’t alright to do at school.

Someone pointed to Delia and called out ‘she brought them’.

‘ Yeah, she give them us Miss!’

The teacher looked at Delia and frowned.

‘ I’m sure that was very kind of you Miss…?’

‘ Busby, Miss. Delia Busby’.

‘ Well Miss Busby, I’m sure you meant well, but it was a bit silly of you, don’t you think? Does your mother know you brought her biscuit tin to school with you?’

‘Mam _gave_ me the biscuits to bring to school, because it was my first day’.

‘ Then it was very foolish of your Mam. What a waste of good food! Especially with a war on. Good grief, I’m sure all of these children get perfectly decent meals in their own homes without handouts from you. And it’s hardly fair when there isn’t enough for everyone to have one, is it?’

Delia felt crushed. The biscuits had been such a lovely surprise, and she’d been so excited to share them with her class, knowing how thrilled _she’d_ have been if someone brought treats for them all on the first day. But now this teacher was twisting everything and spoiling it. The war hadn’t even started yet when Mam made the biscuits, and there would have been more than enough for everyone in her old class back at home – how was Mam to know how many more children there would be here?

She pressed the lid firmly back on over the few crumbs left in her tin and did her best to stuff it out of sight in her school bag.

‘ I’m sorry Miss’.

‘ You may call me  _ Miss Blake _ ’ .

‘ I’m sorry, Miss Blake’.

Delia must have looked as utterly dejected as she felt, because Miss Blake’s tone softened just a little bit.

‘ Alright, I can see you meant well. Just make sure you don’t make a habit of it, and we’ll say no more about it.

Children, what do we say to Delia for giving you all such a nice treat?’

‘ Thank you Delia’.

The other children chorused it in the same sort of singsong drone they had all used at her old school to say ‘Good Morning Mrs Evans’ when their teacher started each day with ‘Good Morning Class Two’. It made her feel a bit awkward, as if _she_ was the one demanding they say thank you and not Miss Blake.

Luckily as soon as they were done chanting it, Miss Blake moved on from her biscuits and started getting them all sorted into their classes.

The very littlest children who didn’t know how to read or write or do even the simplest adding sums were separated from the group and sent off with another teacher, but the rest of them stayed where they were. Delia expected more teachers to come and split them up into three or four different groups, but no one did. Instead Miss Blake explained that half of them would come to school in the mornings, and half in the afternoons, so that there would be enough room and enough teachers for them all.

‘ We’re sharing space with one or two evacuated schools who will be continuing to teach their pupils separately, and we’ve lost  one of our own teachers, so we’re all going to have to make do as best we can. Now, if I could have any siblings or children who are staying in the same house standing together please, so I can make sure we don’t put children from any one household into a different time table. I don’t want any parents mixing up your schedules and sending you at the wrong times’.

There was a good deal of movement, and a few complaints from children who didn’t want to share a class with those they lived with –  siblings and host-evacuee pairings objecting alike.

Miss Blake ignored these complaints entirely, making her way through the crowd and writing names down as she assigned them to mornings or afternoons.

Delia and Pauline weren’t living together, but they were still standing side by side when Miss Blake reached them, so she assigned both of them to morning school before moving on to the next cluster.

They looked at each other. Delia wasn’t quite sure whether to feel pleased or not. Pauline had been horrible and called her poo hands, and she wasn’t the least bit like Sara apart from how she looked, but they _had_ talked a bit and she had accepted a biscuit in the end, so they were sort of friends now. And at least if they stuck together she wouldn’t have to go through talking to someone for the first time and maybe ending up in an argument all over again.

‘ Want to share a desk with me?’

Pauline paused for a long moment, but then she gave a little shrug and said ‘yes, alright’.

It was a long way from the joyful enthusiasm of her imaginary friendship with Sara, but it was something.

There was a lot more waiting around after that, and being told to line up here and go there, then more waiting, then lining up all over again to go somewhere else, before they finally settled into a classroom.

Even once the afternoon class had gone home, there wasn’t enough room for them all. She and Pauline didn’t end up just sharing a desk, they had to share a  _ chair  _ as well, squashed up tight against each other and still not all the way on the little seat. Some of the others opted for sitting on the floor instead, a little row of them lined up in front of the desks. It was going to be very difficult for them to write neatly, trying to balance the ir work on their knees or lean over it on the floor.

Miss Blake cleared her throat, and scuffling and muttering subsided.

‘ Good morning children. For those of you who don’t know, my name is Miss Blake, and I will be teaching you this year. I know we’re all feeling a bit cramped and the situation is not ideal, but we all need to make the best of it while the evacuees are with us. I’m sure it won’t be for too long’.

She gave some of the shabbier evacuees a not-quite-nice look, as if it was _their_ fault they’d been sent here to fill up her classroom, or had any choice about how long they stayed. The glance was over so quickly that Delia couldn’t be sure she’d seen it at all, but it made her like Miss Blake a little bit less all the same.

Her teacher went through all the usual classroom rules next - about sitting up properly and paying attention, raising your hand to speak and not whispering to each other during lessons. It was all the same sorts of things that every teacher said at the start of the school year, as if they thought the students would have forgotten what school was over the summer, but Miss Blake made a particular point of saying how much more important than ever it was that they do exactly as they were told. 

‘I want you all to remember that there is a war on and try to be the very best citizens you can be. Being children is no excuse to ignore what’s happening around you, so I want you all to take every opportunity you can to help out, whether that’s by studying hard in your lessons, or helping out more at home so that the grown ups can focus on war work. We all need to work very hard, so that when our brave soldiers come home they’ll find a country that’s happy and thriving and ready to welcome them home. They _won’t_ want to see scowling faces and ungrateful children who won’t even put up with the most minor discomfort for their sake. _Will_ they, Dafydd and Ivan?’

Two boys who had been jostling each other for more space on their shared seat froze in place. Dafydd shook his head, and Ivan looked down at the desk a little shamefaced.

‘That’s better. Now then, I thought we’d start with an air raid drill to make sure that everyone knows what to do when the real thing happens. There are trenches being dug outside to be turned into proper shelters, but in the meantime, when I give you the warning I want you all to put on your gas masks and lie down under your desks. Lets see how quickly and sensibly we can do it, shall we?’

A girl at the back of the room raised her hand.

‘ Yes, Constance?’

‘ I haven’t got my mask Miss’.

‘ You haven’t got your mask? What do you mean you haven’t got it? You were issued with a gas mask were you not?’

‘ Y- yes Miss Blake, but I forgot it at home’.

‘ And what use is it to you at home if there’s a gas attack?’

‘ I know, I’m sorry Miss, I just forgot. Mam didn’t remind me because my baby brother’s teething and-’

The girl was beginning to sound a little tearful, and Delia felt very, very glad that she hadn’t forgotten _her_ gas mask, even though she’d found it such a nuisance on the way to school. The strap had tangled with her school satchel and both of them kept slipping off her shoulder because her hands were too full of the biscuit tin to adjust them properly, but she resolved to never, ever leave it behind.

Miss Blake was looking extremely fierce now, her hands on her hips, her mouth set in a grim line.

‘ Tell me Constance, are you such a fool that you need to be reminded to put your clothes on in the morning? Or to put your breakfast in your mouth instead of up your nose?’

‘ No Miss Blake’.

Constance’s voice was barely a whisper now, but Miss Blake wasn’t done.

‘ It would be better, Constance –  in fact, all of you- better by far for you to come wandering into school stark naked with a  boiled egg up your nose and your gas mask in your hand, than to come in fully dressed without it. Do I make myself clear?’

It should have  sounded funny , but not one person laughed –  not so much as a tiny titter. They all murmured a subdued ‘yes Miss Blake’ and tried very hard not to catch their teacher’s eye as her gaze swept over them all.

‘ Right then. Constance, go home at once and fetch your gas mask. I don’t want to see you in this classroom again without it, or next time I shall take a cane to you before I send you to get it. Everyone else, gas masks out on the desk in front of you where I can see them. If anyone else has forgotten theirs, I suggest you own up at once and follow Constance out of the door to get it, or I shall not be so lenient with you’.

One other child got up from his place on the floor and hurried out the door, his ears bright red, but the rest of them stayed where they were, trying to shrink right down and hide behind their gas mask boxes.

Miss Blake checked that they really did all have their masks, and then they did the air raid/gas attack drill. They had to put on the masks as quickly as they could and cram themselves under the desks, practically lying on top of each other. Miss Blake made them all stay under there for long, uncomfortable minutes while she strolled between the desks, telling people to tuck in even closer, or tighten their mask up properly.

When they were eventually allowed to crawl out and  squash back into  their  shared seats, they  _ still  _ weren’t given permission to  take off the masks. Miss Blake said it was important that they get used to wearing them, so she made them all sit with them on, while she chalked sums up on the board.  _ She  _ wasn’t wearing her mask, Delia noticed. She had put it on at the same time they did, but took it off again after barely a minute had passed, letting it hang by the straps from her hand while she inspected them.

‘I want you all to work on solving these mental arithmetic problems in your heads – _no talking_ \- and one by one I shall call you up to the front to read for me, so that I can gauge your current ability level. When your name is called, you may remove your mask, return it _carefully_ to its case, and then come to my desk. The child who has been called and myself should be the only people in the room moving or making any noise, do you understand?’

Delia nodded her mask, but she felt dispirited. She wasn’t sure she was going to like this school very much. Miss Blake was quite strict and not a bit smiley or friendly sounding, not even the pretend sort of friendliness that M r s  Evans and that other teacher from this morning had used. The classroom was much too crowded too, and she was already getting pins and needles from sitting at the very edge of her chair. She was sure she was going to get in trouble for untidy writing, but she wouldn’t be able to help it –  her right arm was pressed up against Pauline, so she’d have to write at a strange angle or jab her desk-mate in the ribs every time she reached the end of a line.

She tried hard to focus on the maths problems, but the eye pieces of her mask were beginning to fog up with her breath, so she could barely see Miss Blake at the front of the room, let alone what was written on the board.

Would it be better to take off the mask, or not to have an answer to the sum if she was asked? Both things felt likely to get her into deep trouble, and Delia was just working up the courage to raise her hand and ask what she should do, when someone else beat her to it. Miss Blake sighed a bit at the question as if she thought they were being deliberately unhelpful, but told them all that if they couldn’t read the board with their mask on, then they could go through their times tables in their heads instead.

Delia tried to, she really did, but her mind kept returning to how uncomfortable the mask was - how hard it was to breath and the way it made her face feel all pinched and sweaty. The strong rubbery smell made her feel a little bit sick too, so she was afraid she might throw up in it, and who knew what would happen then?

She clenched her fists tight, trying to remember what seven times  six was, but she couldn’t make the answer come. She was too hot under the mask, and she couldn’t breath, she couldn’t breath, she couldn’t  _ breath _ -

‘ Delia Busby’.

Delia was so caught up in her panic and discomfort that it took a moment to realise why Miss Blake was saying her name.

It was her turn to read.

_ She could take the mask off. _

She tugged it free as quickly as she could, not even caring when several strands of hair caught up in the straps and got yanked painfully from her head. She took a deep breath of clear air, and the wooziness subsided.

Delia was a good reader –  one of the best in her old class, but she stumbled and stuttered a bit as she read to Miss Blake. The sight of a whole roomful of silent, gas mask clad children still had the power to frighten her a bit, even though she’d done plenty of gas mask drills before and she knew they were all just ordinary children underneath, not evil  rubber aliens.

Miss Blake had her keep going for two pages, not saying anything about how she was doing, or correcting her when she struggled with a particularly long word. At the end of it she just said ‘that will do, you may go and sit down’, so it was impossible to tell whether she was pleased or not.

Delia made it through the rest of the lesson  _ somehow _ , and then at eleven o'clock they were allowed to go back outside for playtime.

It seemed that play times were  at different times for the different age groups, because the playground was relatively empty, with actual room to play properly. She took a deep breath of clean, outside air that hadn’t already been breathed by forty other children, spread her arms out wide and spun in a glad circle, relishing the fact that she could move without banging into anyone.

‘ Shall we have a race? Or play we’re explorers? Or we could be pirates, and the playground is the sea’.

Explorers and pirates were two of Delia’s favourite games because almost anything could happen in them, but Pauline pulled a face.

‘ _ No _ . Those are boys games –  all rushing about and pretending to kill each other’.

There was hardly  _ any  _ killing in Delia’s pirate games and none at all in explorers, but before she could point this out, Pauline continued.

‘ Lets just find somewhere to sit. I brought one of my old Girls Own papers, you can look at it with me if you like’.

Mam had actually bought a copy of the Girl’s Own for Delia once, and she had enjoyed some of the stories. It wasn’t _really_ like a magazine, not the dull grown up kind… but Pauline had opened hers to an article titled ‘Take Care of Your Silk Stockings’, and it reminded her so much of Mona and Marged and the boring, boring Saturday she had endured while they poured over their Vogue that she couldn’t bear the idea.

‘Oh come on Pauline, let's play _something_ , we’ve been sitting down for ages, I want to _do_ something! _You_ pick a game if you don’t like mine’.

Pauline sighed and made a big show of stowing her magazine very carefully back in her school bag, even though it was an old one from last year, and the cover was already a bit torn.

‘Alright then. We’ll play ballerinas. I’ve _always_ wanted to be a ballerina, haven’t you?’

Pauline stood on her tiptoes and stretched her arms out, in what she probably imagined was a graceful ballet pose, but looked to Delia as if she was pretending to be a scarecrow.

Delia had never really thought of a ballerina as a particularly interesting thing to be; but after all, it was better than reading about how to look after silk stockings.

She did her best to copy Pauline as she  did clumsy twirls and stuck first one leg and then the other out behind her. They skipped and hopped their way across the playground, while Pauline explained that they were in Swan Lake and she was Odette... and now they were Sugar Plum Fairies in the Nutcracker, and now she was Cinderella (which Pauline insisted was a ballet even though Delia  _ knew  _ it was just an ordinary story, because it was in her fairy story book). It didn’t actually make much difference what show they were supposed to be in though, because the ‘dance’ seemed just the same whether they were swans or fairies or girls who lost their shoes. She pretended not to notice this, because at least as long as they were prancing about they were up and moving, working out the muscles that had got so stiff during the uncomfortable lesson. Pauline’s eyes shone as she looked out at her imaginary audience and swept a curtsey that almost didn’t wobble at all.

As she straightened up again, the bell rang for their next lesson.

It _was_ possible that Pauline had just noticed the teacher coming outside with the bell in her hand and chosen that moment to end their ‘performance’, but it still seemed like spookily perfect timing, as if she really had planned a show to be the exact right length. It was a shame to waste the whole of play time on boring old ballet, but Pauline looked properly happy for the first time since they’d met that morning, so Delia supposed it was alright.

Maybe tomorrow they’d get to play one of _her_ games instead. They could take it in turns. And _maybe_ after a while, once Pauline got used to playing Delia’s sorts of games, she’d realise they were more fun than just doing pretend ballet dancing after all, and then it would be like being back with Cathy and Joyce…

_ Almost _ .

She made it through the rest of morning school, though it seemed to drag on for hours and hours. They didn’t have to put their gas masks on again after break, but even so, by the time Miss Blake dismissed them for the day it felt as though they had done a full, extra long school day; not just a half day with the first part taken up waiting around and then trying to get their classes organised. They _had_ been told to arrive early that morning, but even so, if this was what the first day was like, she wasn’t much looking forward to the second.

Pauline dashed off almost the moment they set food outside, barely pausing to fling a casual ‘well, bye then!’ in Delia’s direction before running off to join an older girl with the same dark hair and green-grey eyes as Pauline’s, who must have been her big sister. Delia didn’t have time to say anything at all before she was left alone.

She sighed and began to trudge across the playground on her own.

Nain was supposed to be meeting her after school, but how would she know that they’d be finishing early? Should Delia stay and wait all through the long afternoon until she got here? Or would it be better to try and walk home by herself, even though she wasn’t quite sure she’d remembered the way yet and might get really, properly lost?

‘Oy, Delia!’

D elia jumped at the sudden shout and spun round. Three girls around her own age were standing just behind her, hands on hips.

She recognised two of them as girls she had played with once or twice on visits to Nain in the past and had quite liked. They were called… Alma, and… Judy- no, Judith. The third one she recognised as Veronica Trindle, but they had _never_ played together, because when they were little Veronica had been the sort of girl who pulled pigtails and would snatch a lolly right out of your hands and crunch it up before you could even draw breath to cry.

She swallowed a little nervously, but after all, that had been a long time ago, and if Alma and Judith liked her then perhaps Veronica was nice now.

‘ Hello…’

‘ We saw you in the playground this morning. Why did you give all your biscuits to those evacuees?’

‘I didn’t, I gave them to anyone that asked. _You_ could have asked and I’d have given you one too’.

She wouldn’t have _wanted_ to give one to Veronica, but she’d have done it all the same.

‘We shouldn’t have to ask! You should have given them to us first. You would have, if you were properly like us. We were going to ask if you wanted to play with us-’

‘ Oh, yes pl-’

‘\- _but_ we’re not going to now. It looks like you’ve picked your side, so you can jolly well play with _them_ from now on’.

All three of them ran off without another word, and Delia wondered why they’d bothered to talk to her at all if it was just to tell her they weren’t going to talk to her anymore. They hadn’t said anything to her before either, but it felt different now.

She sank down to sit just outside the school gate, her head resting on her folded arms.

She felt horribly, desperately alone.


	16. Patsy - pt 1 of 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another multiple chapter bit for Patsy, but this should be the last one for a while at least. This is part 1 of 3, then we'll go and see what Delia's up to again.
> 
> There are the usual content warnings at the bottom, but for this chapter I just want to give particular warning for anyone with food issues/triggers - there is a part of this chapter (fairly near the beginning) that may be tough. Check end notes for more details
> 
> Also - to those people who left me such lovely comments last chapter (and especially those who comment without fail on every chapter): truly, THANK YOU. They mean so much and have motivated me to actually get back to properly enjoying writing and planning this story. You are the best <3

Very early on Monday morning the birds were cawing and crowing again, insistent and penetrating no matter how deeply Patsy tried to burrow under the covers to escape the noise. She didn’t _want_ to wake up. When she woke up, she would have to face another whole day with the Gethins, and get scolded and slapped and sighed at for hour after hour no matter how hard she tried to behave.

But the day was determined to begin whether she liked it or not. Grace had woken up too now, and was wriggling beside her, pushing at Patsy’s face and chest indiscriminately in an effort to get her to move. When she stayed where she was, her sister tried to clamber right _over_ her, so she could get out of bed on the side that wasn’t pushed up against the wall.

‘Ouch, Grace, _don’t_! That hurts!’

‘But I have to _go._ I have to go _really, really badly_. Oh quick, oh _quick,_ before I _wet_!’

That made Patsy sit up sharpish.

‘Don’t you _dare_ wee on me!’

She disentangled herself from her sister and practically leapt out of bed, pulling the pot from under it in the same move.

‘Use that then, go on’.

It was light outside, but somehow Patsy didn’t quite feel like trailing all the way downstairs and across the garden to use the proper WC, even if she could have trusted Grace to hold it in long enough when she was looking this wriggly. Mrs Gethin might catch them coming back through the kitchen or on the stairs and assume they had gone to help themselves to breakfast again, and they didn’t need another one of _those_ arguments.

So Patsy took a turn on the pot too while Grace turned her back, and then they both got dressed and sat cross legged on the bed, playing whisper-games while they waited for the rest of the household to wake up. They couldn’t possibly get in trouble for anything today – they were the very picture of two good, obedient little evacuees who were trying very hard to get along in their new home, just as they had been told to do.

It got a bit boring, trying to think of things they could do without disturbing anyone, but at long last they heard sounds of stirring along the corridor, and then the shuffle-slap of slippered feet coming towards their room.

Mrs Gethin didn’t tap on the door gently and then peep round with a cheerful ‘good morning sleepy heads!’ the way Maud would have, she just barged right in without knocking, already calling out ‘Up! Wake up, there’s work to be-’

Then she stopped, mid shout, staring not at the two brushed, dressed and very definitely awake girls waiting for her, but at the sunshine pouring in through the window, as if she’d never seen daylight before.

‘What have you _done_?’

Patsy followed Mrs Gethin’s gaze, confused. The window wasn’t cracked or smashed. There was no dirt, not even any finger marks to mar the clear glass panes. They hadn’t even _opened_ it in case they’d be scolded for it, though the room badly needed airing.

When neither Patsy nor Grace responded, Mrs Gethin crossed the room and picked up one of the sheets of cardboard they’d pulled down on their first night, waving it accusingly at them.

‘You’ve broken the blackout you _idiot_ children! If we get fined for this I shall be sending the bill to your mother, and I’ll tell the warden exactly whose fault it is as well, so he can give you the punishment you deserve. _I_ certainly won’t be taking the blame for you. Get that cardboard back up at once’.

‘But it’s so _dark_ with the card up...’

‘Of course it’s dark, that’s the whole point! We have to stop any light showing outside the house so the Germans won’t know where the towns are. You should _know_ that’.

‘But no one _told_ us’.

‘Don’t look all reproachful at me madam, it’s not _my_ job to tell you. Your own mother should have explained all this to you before you left her. I may have to put a roof over your ungrateful heads, but I don’t have to dandle you on my knee and spoon feed you every little thing. I have my _own_ family to worry about and that’s more than plenty, what with my Lewis so keen to join up for all he’s still just a boy, barely eighteen years old...’

She trailed off for a moment and then seemed to remember who she was talking to and came back to herself with a scowl.

‘Not that that’s any of _your_ business. You get that cardboard back up. You want light during the day, you can open the window, but I want it shut and covered the very instant it starts getting dark, and you’re not ever to touch the card again. It’s a waste of tape putting it up and down all the time. When you’ve finished doing that that you can come and get your breakfasts, but hurry up. I’m not faffing about keeping it hot for you if you’re late’.

She was about to leave, but on her way to the door she spotted their best dresses, still lying crumpled and forlorn where they had discarded them so hurriedly the day before. She picked up both dresses, shaking them out and examining them, then draped them over her arm.

‘Where are you taking our dresses?’

‘I’m going to run an iron over them, they’re in a disgraceful state. And don’t ask questions’.

She didn’t look at either of them as she said this, but the fact that she hadn’t actually told them off about the crumpled clothes, and was offering to iron them without even being asked was bewildering. Patsy and Grace stared at each other in frank amazement as Mrs Gethin stomped off downstairs. Could Mrs Jenkins’ ‘little talk’ really have worked? Mrs Gethin was still sour and snappish and scary, but maybe not _quite_ as much as she had been before...

They did as they were told and put the cardboard back up over the window, although the room was horribly dingy when they’d finished, even once they opened the window as wide as it would go. It was _so_ dark that Patsy took a moment to pack all their things back into their case before they went downstairs, afraid they wouldn’t be able to find them again in the gloom. She thought wistfully of the room the Jenkins’ evacuees slept in. It was light and clean, and they had cosy looking beds and toys to play with. It was so _unfair_.

In the kitchen Mrs Gethin was busy serving up porridge from a pan on the stove. She didn’t say anything about them having to share this time. She slammed a bowl down in front of each of them without a word, then moved on to serve herself and Mr Gethin.

Patsy peered at the contents of her bowl dubiously. She had _thought_ it was porridge, but it didn’t look a bit like the porridge they had at home. It was greyish and full of horrid looking lumps, and there was no cream or jam or sugar or _anything_ to put on top. She gave the unappetising mixture a tentative poke with her spoon and tried not to shudder as an air bubble burped to the slimy surface in a vile imitation of swamp mud.

Mr Gethin must have noticed something, because he looked up from his own bowl and tutted.

‘Dear dear Mrs Gethin, I don’t think the little girlies are happy with their breakfast. I expect they’d like a bit more. I think we’d better top up their bowls, don’t you?’

‘Oh, no thank you, this is plenty’.

‘Oh, plenty is it? You see, _I_ don’t think it is. I hear you’ve been going round telling everyone that we don’t feed you properly. We can’t have that, can we? We can’t have _dear_ Mrs Jenkins thinking we’re starving our poor little evacuees’.

Mr Gethin picked up his own much larger bowl, and tipped half of its contents into Patsy’s bowl, half into Grace’s, until they were so full the porridge came right to the brims, very nearly slopping over the sides onto the table.

‘Eat up’.

‘Henri...’

‘No Missus, they’ll eat it all up. They want to go round telling stories to half the town and making folk think we don’t feed them, fine. They’ll get fed, just like they wanted. Come on, clear your bowlfuls’.

Patsy stared from her bowl to Mr Gethin. He couldn’t really mean it could he? Even if it had been the most delicious, smooth, creamy porridge in the world, it was _much_ too much. They couldn’t possibly eat it all. But he stared back at her steadily, giving no hint that he might be joking. She glanced pleadingly at Mrs Gethin instead, hoping she might continue her kindness over the dresses and help her now.

Mrs Gethin was frowning, but she didn’t say they didn’t have to eat it after all. She avoided Patsy’s eye and began spooning her own porridge up neatly, as if she was entirely unaware of what was happening at the other end of the table.

There was nothing for it.

Patsy picked up her spoon again and poked it into the grey mass in her bowl, scooping out one small lump and putting it quickly into her mouth before she could change her mind. It was even worse than she’d expected – somehow gritty and gelatinous at the same time, and she choked a little as she forced it down. But force it down she did.

She continued mechanically dipping her spoon, filling it, gulping down each hideous, claggy mouthful and dipping again; but when she felt absolutely stuffed to bursting and was sure she couldn’t manage another bite, the bowl seemed barely emptier than when she’d started. Grace hadn’t put so much as a single bite into her own mouth, just turned her spoon over and over in her porridge, her lips pressed firmly together.

Mr Gethin sat watching them in stony silence, his arms folded, his empty bowl in front of him, making no move to fetch anything else for his own breakfast. It seemed he planned to watch until they really had eaten every bite.

Patsy took a deep breath and continued, the world narrowing to nothing but the bowl in front of her with its seemingly never ending supply of porridge. Her tummy was starting to hurt, but she was still nowhere near finished.

Another spoonful.

She could feel prickles of sweat breaking out on her forehead.

Another.

Her tongue and teeth were coated in the awful, slimy sludge, impossible to clear no matter how many times she swallowed, until she felt like she was drowning in it.

Another… This one contained a particularly large and horrible burned clump of oats, the texture reminding her awfully of the fish jelly they had imagined for their cat selves the day before. Only _this_ jelly wasn’t set and bouncy, it was all gloopy and lumpy and had bits of fish bone in it, like the most disgusting congealed stew in the world. She tried desperately to push the thought away, but the lump broke apart the charcoal-y burnt bits crunched in her teeth like they really _were_ bits of fish bone, and her over full stomach lurched. She dropped her spoon into her porridge with a splatter, clapped both hands over her mouth and scrambled down from her chair without asking to be excused.

She only just made it to the WC before she was terribly, horribly sick. Tears spurted unbidden down her cheeks as she retched again and again, her sickness made much worse by the smell of the dreadful little outhouse.

No one came to check on her.

Patsy had never been sick all by herself before. At home, Maud had always been there to hold back her hair, then give her a drink of water and tuck her back into a freshly made bed afterwards. Alone in the WC, she had to hold her own loose hair (Mrs Gethin still wouldn’t let her plait it and expose the bump), balled untidily in one fist while the other hand braced against the wall. She was desperately worried that some of it would swing free and end up covered in horrible, clinging, porridgy sick, but she was too busy retching to check.

Her knees were shaking by the time she stumbling out from the WC, and her mouth tasted bad. She felt weak and fragile, as if the act of throwing up had made her actually ill, and she longed for her own bed and someone to come and tell her that everything was alright. She had to settle for washing her hands and face and rinsing out her mouth at the outdoor tap before going back into the kitchen, her head lowered against an expected scolding. If Mr Gethin made her sit back down and finish the rest of her bowlful, she was quite certain she would die right there.

He looked up as she came in, a nasty smile on his face.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll be complaining that we don’t feed you again, will you Missy?’

‘No Mr Gethin’.

‘No, I thought not. I did the same thing with our Lewis when he was a greedy little boy, and it did him the world of good. I hope you’ve learned to be grateful for what you’re given. And that goes for you too blondie. Have you quite finished your breakfasts now?’

They both nodded silently, and Mr Gethin picked up Patsy’s bowl, and Grace’s almost untouched one, and poured the contents of both back into his own, tucking in at once with every sign of enjoyment.

They sat quietly at the table with their empty spaces in front of them, not daring to say another word until Mr Gethin left for work.

After he’d gone Mrs Gethin let out a sigh and began gathering the empty dishes.

‘You shouldn’t have gone telling tales to that Mrs Jenkins, Mr Gethin hates to be embarrassed like that. And the _things_ she was saying! You’d clearly been telling a whole lot of naughty lies, you bad girls. You’re both going to have to work very hard to get into his good books after this, and mine too. Now you two get these dishes washed, while I iron those ridiculous party frocks of yours. You can tuck a teatowel into your collar if you need something to keep your clothes dry’.

‘ _Us?’_

‘Of course you, who else?

‘But I’ve been sick!’

‘You were sick because you ate too much, not because you’re actually poorly. The only thing wrong with _you_ is that you’re bone idle, and the only medicine for that is a sharp dose of honest labour’.

Mrs Gethin was giving her a stony look that said that arguing would get her nowhere but into trouble, and Patsy gave up the fight, still feeling too sick and shaky to want to risk another punishment so soon.

At least dishes didn’t seem _too_ difficult. They’d never actually done washing up before, but just wiping the dirt off some bowls sounded simple enough.

Except it _wasn’t_ simple.

Every time Patsy wiped, porridge stuck to the cloth in a slimy layer that made her shudder when her fingers brushed it, so she had to keep stopping to rinse it out after every rub of a dish. The water in the sink got all full of porridge bits too, and they floated about looking disgusting, sticking to the wiped bowls when she tried to rinse them. The big iron porridge pot was even worse, because there were burned on bits, and bits that had dried hard onto the pan so it was almost impossible to prise them off even when she scrubbed and scrubbed and _scrubbed_. Grace didn’t seem to be managing any better with the drying, dabbing away ineffectually at each bowl with a damp tea towel and giving frequent sighs of frustration as they refused to get any drier.

Mrs Gethin ignored all of this. She was busy heating the iron on the other side of the room, fussing over all the flounces of their best dresses and trying hard to press out every crease. After everything she’d said about them yesterday, it was very strange to see her taking such care now.

Once the dishes were done at last they stayed standing by the sink and watched her work for a while, wondering where they might be going that they needed their party dresses for. Was there going to _be_ a party? Maybe the town had organised one to welcome the evacuees, and Patsy and Grace would wear their best dresses and play with the Jenkins children, who would of course be there too; and there might even be games with prizes, and little sandwiches and blancmange and cake, like at a birthday party.

Patsy stayed lost in this hopeful fantasy until Mrs Gethin noticed they had finished the dishes and set Patsy to sweeping the floor and Grace to wiping over all the surfaces with a damp cloth. There seemed to be such a _lot_ of floor and so _many_ surfaces that they were soon bored and exhausted, and desperate to go off and play. It was so difficult and tedious having to clean up every little speck of dirt. Patsy began to feel rather sorry for their own maids as she swept ineffectually with the balding broom, but she also missed them badly. She _did_ wish that they didn’t have to spend all their time cleaning because it must be so horribly boring, doing it day after day after day... but she wished even _more_ that they were here to sweep the floor for her, so she didn’t have to. _Especially_ since she had just been sick, so any proper grown up would have tucked her into bed and not made her do any work at all. But Mrs Gethin _wasn’t_ a proper grown up, she was a mean old ogre-witch, just like she had thought on their first night. Except she was even worse than the very meanest ogre in any fairy story, because as soon as the kitchen was swept and wiped, she announced that it was washing day, and they both had to help.

Patsy only just managed to swallow a groan as Mrs Gethin dragged a big tub out into the back garden to put the clothes in.

First they had to fill it with jug after jug of hot water, then dunk the clothes and rub hard at them with special laundry soap. Each item had to be scrubbed and scrubbed, and dunked and squeezed and rinsed for ages to get them clean. Their hands grew red and sore with it, and Mrs Gethin scolded them both sharply for being lazy and slow and not getting all the dirt out properly. She didn’t seem to understand that they were trying, but it was just too _hard_.

At last Grace’s frustration with the work overcame her fear of Mrs Gethin and she dropped the sock she had been holding back into the water.

‘I’m _tired_. I want to _stop_ now’.

‘You might well be tired, but the work isn’t done yet, so you aren’t done either. You two have clearly been spoiled rotten, and you’re going to have to learn the value of hard work’.

‘But my haaands huuuuurt’.

‘I don’t care if your hands fall right off. Get back to work or I shall put you over my knee and give you such a spanking’.

Grace scowled, folding her arms and shaking her head, her lip jutting dangerously.

‘You won’t. You only smacked Patsy because she’s the big one, but _I’m_ just a baby and you can’t hit babies!’

‘Is that so little Miss? Well you don’t look like a baby to me, you look like a spoiled little brat’.

Before either of them could say or do anything else, Mrs Gethin had seized Grace by the arm and hauled her to her feet, delivering a swift smack to the back of either leg and giving her a hard shake before she released her.

The slaps were sharp, but not actually hard enough to make the skin go properly red – nothing like as hard as the clump round the head she had given Patsy the day before. Grace howled all the same, shocked.

‘You _hit_ me!’

‘That was just a little warning tap. Now you settle back down to work or I’ll use a stick next time. And that goes for both of you. You’re both lazy, entitled little madams and I’d be doing you a favour to give you a proper hard beating, but this washing needs doing and I won’t have you wriggling out of it that easily. Now stop that noise and get _on_ with it’.

It took _hours_ to get the washing done. Patsy thought longingly of their rolos and apple, and the fruit cake and treacle tart that Mrs Jones had packed up for them. She had finally stopped feeling sick, but now she was starving hungry instead, her stomach achingly empty after throwing up every bite of her awful breakfast. If only they could sneak away upstairs they’d be able to have a proper feast…

But Mrs Gethin came out then and inspected each item they had cleaned. She tutted loudly and tipped nearly half of them back into the tub, saying they hadn’t done it properly and would have to try again.

They would _never_ be done.

Mrs Gethin really was a witch and she had put a curse on them, dooming them to live out the worst parts of their day over and over forever. Endless porridge. Endless dishes. Endless washing. Endless, endless, endless.

As soon as she went back inside, Grace started up a muttered stream of ‘Meanie Bum, Bum Face, Smelly Bum, Nasty Yucky Bum Bum, Mrs Bummy Gethin Bum’, smacking at the clothes as if she was imagining their host’s face on each item. Patsy knew that this was ‘not appropriate behaviour for young ladies’, but then neither was doing laundry or scrubbing dishes, or any of the other things they were being forced to do, so it seemed only fair to allow a bit of name calling too. She joined in after a minute, whispering as many silly bum names as she could think of while she kept a careful eye on the door so that she could give her sister a little nudge when she saw Mrs Gethin coming back. By the time Mrs Meanie Bum Face was in ear shot, they were both bending earnestly over the tub, as good as gold.

This time their work was proclaimed ‘passable, barely’, and they were allowed to empty the tub at long last. But even then it wasn’t over. They had to put all the clothes through the mangle to squeeze out the water, and _that_ took ages too. The mangle was actually almost fun at first, turning the handle and watching all the water pour out into the little tub set beneath it, but it quickly lost its appeal. Wet clothes were surprisingly heavy, and it got hard trying to turn the handle too, especially on Mr Gethin’s big trousers and jumpers, which were thick as well as long. Grace was crying by the time they’d finished, her little arms trembling hard with effort.

Mrs Gethin tried to have them pin the clothes out on the washing line next, but even Patsy was nowhere near tall enough, so at long last they were allowed to stop. They tried to sneak away to their room where they could flop into an exhausted heap, but Mrs Gethin caught the movement.

‘Don’t you run off!’

‘We don’t have to do _more_ jobs do we?’

‘Don’t take that tone. You’ve hardly done enough to look so woebegone, and what you have done is pretty shoddy work. But no, we aren’t going to do any more housework just now. We’ll have a little light lunch and then we’re going into town, so you need to hang those teatowels up nicely and get yourself tidied up. I’ve left your meals out on the table for you’.

Lunch was a single thick slice of bread and a chunk of cheese each, as well as a tin cup of water. The bread was dry – not even the slightest scraping of butter on their slices, and the cheese was a hard, pungent kind that they didn’t recognise. Neither of them liked it very much, but they ate it anyway. It was better than the porridge had been at least, and they were both a little afraid that Mrs Gethin would bring out a whole _wheel_ of the odd cheese and try to make them eat all of it if they left it on their plates.

They had to wash the lunch things up too, and then Mrs Gethin brought out her hard, spiky hairbrush and made Patsy stand still while she brushed it forwards over her bumped forehead again.

‘Do I _have_ to have my hair like that? It’s so tickly’.

‘Yes you do. It’s your own fault you banged your head, but I won’t have you wandering around with that unsightly scab on show, people will be thinking all sorts. You leave your hair how it is, you hear me? It’ll be gone in a couple of weeks’.

A couple of _weeks_? How could she go around like this every day for _two whole weeks_? She’d go cross eyed from staring at her hair all the time.

‘I won’t have to have it like this for school, will I?’

‘Yes of course you- hold on. Shouldn’t you two be at school _today_? Why didn’t you go this morning?’

‘We haven’t really _got_ a school...’

‘Oh don’t give me that, it’s written on your label. Your teacher must have told you where to go. Are you playing truant?’

‘No Mrs Gethin I promise we’re not! We _want_ to go to school’.

This was truer than it had ever been before. Patsy thought she would very _nearly_ choose to go to St Agnes’, even with Sister Bernard and Miss Richmond, rather than spend another day like today, doing housework for hour after hour.

Mrs Gethin snorted, seeming to read her meaning as plainly as if she had said it out loud.

‘I dare say you do. I tell you now though, it won’t get you out of doing your share. You’ll both have your household duties, and they’ll be waiting for you the minute you finish school. You need to earn your keep in this house or you won’t get kept, I thought I’d made that clear. It’s no good sending you to school today, not at this time, but you can go along tomorrow morning, and if you’re in disgrace for missing the first day that’ll just serve you right for trying to get out of going’.

‘But we _weren’t_ -’

Mrs Gethin raised a hand threateningly, and Patsy shut up quick before she could be smacked.

‘That’s better. Lets keep it that way, shall we?’

The walk into town was conducted in stony silence, Mrs Gethin marching ahead, clutching a brown paper parcel to her chest as if they might try to snatch it from her, while Patsy and Grace scurried along at her heels trying to keep up with her longer strides.

When Mrs Gethin stopped outside a children’s outfitter’s, Patsy thought she must just be catching her breath, and turned to stare idly into the window while she waited. But Mrs Gethin took hold of her elbow and steered her inside, hissing at her to keep up and not just stand there gawping like a fool.

A bell above the door tinkled as they entered, and an old lady with a funny little squashed up nose like a bulldog and a string of pretend pearls around her neck straightened up to greet them. Well, she greeted Mrs Gethin. Her gaze slipped right over Patsy and Grace, the only sign that she had noticed them at all a slight wrinkling of her funny nose as her eyes passed over them.

‘Good morning Madam, how can I help you today?’

‘I’m looking to outfit my two evacuees. Nothing too fancy, just plain, practical clothes with room to grow in. And not too pricey if you please’.

It didn't make sense. Why on Earth was Mrs Gethin buying clothes for _them?_ She had been very clear that she didn’t want to spend money on them, and Patsy and Grace already had two dresses each that were much nicer than anything that could be found here. Even the clothes in pride of place in the window display – obviously meant to tempt customers in with their style and quality, were cheaply made of poor fabrics. Patsy tried to imagine putting one on and going to her old school, but she couldn’t get any further than Anne’s shocked face. She’d have laughed herself sick if she saw Patsy in the very best dress in the shop, let alone anything from the dismal array of items in bland, sludgy colours that the bulldog lady brought out for Mrs Gethin to look over.

Without pausing to examine styles or ask what Patsy and Grace liked best, Mrs Gethin picked out the lowest priced outfit in each of their sizes and sent them off into the changing room to try them on. Patsy ended up with a horribly thin, cheap feeling whitish shirt and a rough brown tunic, Grace a matching shirt in a smaller size and a navy blue pinafore.

It was a thousand times worse than wearing the boys outfit at the rectory had been, and worst of _all_ Mrs Gethin made them both take off their own dainty strappy patent shoes, and then forced their reluctant feet into boyish brown lace ups that were a size to big for them, so that they made their feet look clumpy and clownish. When Patsy dared to point this out, Mrs Gethin told her she was being silly – the way children shot up they’d need new ones next week if she didn’t buy them a size up, and did she think she was made of money to be buying new shoes every other minute? She shared a suffering look with the bulldog lady over their heads as she said it.

‘These city kids! You go out of your way to accommodate them, buy them lovely new clothes, and what do you get? Nothing but ingratitude and scowling faces!’

‘Oh I know, mine are just the same, it’s a real shame’.

‘It’s disgraceful is what it is. The sooner this war’s over and they can go back where they belong the better, before they send me and mine to the poor house’.

The shop lady and Mrs Gethin went on like this for another few minutes, complaining about the short comings of the evacuees as if Patsy and Grace weren’t standing right beside them, their cheeks burning in embarrassment and useless anger.

When at last the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another customer, Mrs Gethin made to usher them back out the door.

‘Couldn’t we put our own clothes back on first?’

‘No you may not. You’ll need to keep those dresses nice for Sundays, so you won’t end up in the same disgraceful state as yesterday. You may carry the dress parcel though. I’ll keep hold of the shoe box for you’.

Mrs Gethin handed Patsy the parcel that the bulldog lady had wrapped their own dresses in and pushed her very firmly out of the door, so that she had to start walking or be knocked right over by the force of it.

‘Why do we need to keep those ones nice? We’ve got Sunday dresses already’.

‘I told you it isn’t appropriate to wear such ridiculous fancy things here, don’t you listen?’

‘But then why did you iron them for us, if we aren’t ever allowed to wear them?’

This was genuinely baffling to Patsy, but Mrs Gethin acted as though she was being cheeky.

‘You mind your doings and I’ll mind mine. That’s enough out of you in any case. I don’t hold with little children asking so many impertinent questions. You’re meant to be seen and not heard, so be _quiet_ ’.

After having to stand there and listen while grown ups insulted her, she _m_ _ight_ have felt cross enough to keep arguing, if at that moment Mrs Gethin hadn’t stopped suddenly outside, of all places, a _sweet_ shop. Mrs Gethin seemed much too sour to have a secret taste for confectionery, so what could she possibly be buying? Perhaps she enjoyed extra strong mints that made your mouth burn, or the horrid perfume-tasting Turkish delight – she definitely wouldn’t choose any of the actually _nice_ sweets.

But instead of going in to buy anything at all, she pressed a small coin into _Patsy’s_ hand.

‘Get yourselves some sweets while I go on to the next shop. I’ll meet you back here in five minutes’.

Patsy stared at the little piece of money, too surprised even to close her fingers around it. Mrs Gethin was giving them money for _sweets_? After she had just been telling her off for answering back?

She would never, _ever_ understand grown ups.

By the time she had gotten over her shock enough to stutter out a thank you, Mrs Gethin had already walked off, turning down a side street and out of sight, and Grace was tugging on her free hand.

‘Come on, come on! Lets get _sweeties_!’

They had never actually been into a sweetshop like this before, not all on their own, with their own coin to spend on whatever they liked.

The shop offered a dizzying array of choices. Jar after jar of different brightly coloured sweets, most of which they had never even seen, let alone tasted. There were whole shelves of chocolate bars – Rolos and Mars Bars and Fry’s Creams by the dozen. There were liquorice allsorts, walnut nougat, sherbet fountains, toffees and nuts and fruit gums. So many choices that for a while they both just stood and stared, open mouthed.

Grace recovered first, and began running from shelf to shelf, picking things up and putting them down again, calling out ‘lets get fudge! No, sherbet, no _chocolate!_ ’

Patsy rather wanted to run about excitedly too, but she caught the eye of the man behind the counter and resisted, afraid he might get cross with them.

‘Grace, come back here. You _know_ you’re not allowed to dash about like that in shops, you could break something!’

Grace sighed at her, but she couldn’t stay annoyed for more than a second. Forbidden from running, she rotated slowly on the spot instead, bouncing up and down on her heels in utter delight as she did so and breathing in deeply to smell the sugary air.

‘It’s _magic._ I wish we could live here forever!’

It _was_ like magic – like the inside of the best dream ever… but the more Patsy looked around, the less happy and excited she felt. She looked from the jars on the shelves to the little coin in her hand, trying to work out what they might actually be able to buy with it.

The coin was small and copper coloured, and had a little bird on one side with the word ‘Farthing’ written under it. She knew that a Farthing was a ¼ penny, because her old arithmetic teacher had used British money when he set them problems; but although she could calculate how much change she would get if she paid ten shillings for something that was marked 8 _/11¾_ , and knew that half a crown was two shillings and six pence, and you needed eight of them to make a pound, she didn’t actually know what you could _buy_ with any of it. Did a shilling get you a bar of chocolate, or a pair of shoes? Was a farthing enough to buy a box of Smarties? A sherbet fountain? Would it get them so much as a single toffee chew?

She had never needed to know before. Since coming back to England the only shops they had been to were big, expensive department stores and boutiques with Mama, and those weren’t at all the sorts of places where you could spend pocket money, even if she and Grace had ever been given any.

At last Patsy decided she was going to have to ask, and stepped tentatively up to the counter, feeling a bit silly. Surely they must be the only children in the whole world who could come into a shop with money in their hand and not actually know how much they had to spend. It was _almost_ awkward enough to duck out of the shop again without buying anything at all , but she did badly want some sweets, and Grace would probably lie down right here on the floor and start having a proper kicking-and-screaming tantrum if she tried to drag her out w ithout getting _something_. So she swallowed hard and looked up at the large, red faced shop keeper.

‘Excuse me sir, please could you tell me what we can buy with this?’

She held the coin out on her palm, and the man leaned forward to peer at it.

‘Just a farthing, is that? You can’t get much for a farthing I’m afraid, not these days. Cheapest we have is the plain boiled sweets, and those are tuppence a quarter’.

‘Well then, could we have…’ She paused, trying to work out the sum in her head. ‘Could we have one thirty-twoth of them please?’

It wouldn’t be very many sweets at all. Two or three between them, maybe four at the most, since the boiled sweets were quite small... but even if they just got one each it would be better than nothing.

But rather than saying ‘excellent choice madam!’ and hurrying to wrap their purchase the way the shop ladies always did when Mama bought anything, the sweet shop man burst into uproarious laughter, throwing his head back and slapping the counter in his merriment. It wasn’t very nice being laughed at, and Patsy squirmed a little even though it wasn’t a really _unkind_ laugh. More like he thought she was trying to tell a joke and was laughing extra loud to please her.

‘A _dirty tooth_ did you say? I’ve never been asked for a dirty tooth before, though many a mother would say that that’s what my toffees will give you’.

Was he… teasing her? People in shops never ever teased Mama, so she wasn’t quite sure how to respond to it. She decided it was safest to assume he really had misheard her and carry on in earnest.

‘A thirty-twoth – One over thirty two. I _think_ that’s right… The sweets are two pence a quarter, and one farthing is a quarter of a penny, so one eighth of a quarter would be a thirty-twoth… did I get my sum wrong?’

Patsy always got top marks for Arithmetic, so she didn’t _think_ she had got it wrong, but why else would he be laughing at her?

‘I dare say you got it absolutely correct young lady, I’ve just never heard anyone refer to half an ounce as a thirty-twoth of a pound before. You’ve quite tickled me. So, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, just this once. You give me that farthing, and you can choose whichever kind of sweet you like best for the same price as the boiled ones, because you have such nice manners and you’ve given me a chuckle. How does that sound?’

‘Oh, truly? Thank you so _much_!’

‘It’s my pleasure little lady. So, which will it be? What’s your favourite?’

‘I- I’m not sure. We’ve never actually _been_ to a sweetshop like this before...’

‘Never been to a sweetshop? Dear goodness girl, I didn’t think there was a child alive who had never had sweeties from a sweet shop. Well then, I think what you need is a bit of _variety_ , don’t you?’

The man took a little paper bag in one hand, and with the other began lifting down jars, popping in a single sweet from this or that one. He got to four, and Patsy assumed he’d stop there because that had to be their half ounce used up, but he came around the counter and began strolling around the shop, examining all the other jars around the room.

Occasionally he’d pause to ask how they felt about aniseed (not so good), or whether they liked sour flavours as well as sweet (yes they did). All the time he did so Grace was hopping from foot to foot, nodding enthusiastically at everything he suggested, too excited to really take in what was actually being asked.

By the time the sweet shop man twisted the top of the bag closed and handed it over, there was definitely much more than half an ounce in it. He didn’t actually put it on his scales, but it had to be at least two whole ounces, and Patsy felt a bit worried, wondering if he had misunderstood and was expecting more money.

‘I… don’t think we can afford all of these, even at tuppence a quarter...’

The man winked at her ‘I slipped in a few extra, on the house. Don’t you go telling all your friends mind, or I’ll have everyone in here wanting freebies, and it’ll drive me clean out of business’.

‘Oh! Thank you, thank you! We won’t say a word to anyone, I _promise_ ’.

Patsy couldn’t help hugging the bag gleefully to her chest, while Grace went so far as to throw her arms around the sweetshop man’s knees and hug _him_.

‘I _love_ you Mr Sweetshop!’

‘ _Grace!’_

But the sweetshop man just chuckled and gave her a little pat on the head.

‘Now there’s thanks you don’t see every day! To tell you the truth though little misses, I consider this an investment. You’ll sample a selection of my finest wares, and the next time you have some pennies to spend you’ll be straight round to old Mr May’s sweetshop, isn’t that right?’

Patsy didn’t think they’d _get_ any more pennies, but she agreed enthusiastically all the same. She decided that even if she was a grown up lady living in Singapore by the time she next got some spending money of her own, she would come all the way back to Mr May’s sweetshop and buy as much as she could carry from him, and give him a great big tip into the bargain, for being so kind to her when she was a little girl without any money.

Outside the sweetshop they peered eagerly into their bag, taking great delight in debating over which sweet to try first. They were both sucking happily, trying to describe the flavours of their different sweets to each other, when Mrs Gethin came back around the corner towards them. Patsy thrust the paper bag into her tunic pocket quickly, afraid she might take the sweets off them if she saw it.

She didn’t say a word about sweets though, just gestured irritably for them to follow her and started striding off up the road, her hands clenched tight around the strap of her handbag as if she wanted to strangle it. _Both_ her hands.

The brown paper parcel she had been carrying when they left the house had gone. More worrying, the box that had held their own lovely smart patent shoes had gone too.

‘Oh we must go back! You’ve forgotten our shoe box!’

Mrs Gethin gave her such a severe look that Patsy caught her breath in surprise, very nearly choking on her buttered brazil.

‘I haven’t forgotten anything’.

‘But you _have._ We need to go and find our shoes! You must remember, you were carrying the box. I’ve only got the parcel with our dresses in, look’.

‘Be quiet and come along’.

But Patsy wouldn’t. She turned to run back the way they’d come, determined to go and look for the shoe box herself if Mrs Gethin didn’t care to.

A vice like grip on her arm yanked her back before she could take more than a single step.

‘Don’t you go running off. Your shoes aren’t lost, they’re just not yours anymore. Silly, impractical things. They’d have been scuffed up in no time, and then where would you be? You’ll be better off in your sensible lace ups, and those city shoes and dresses can go off to some other flighty Miss with more money than good sense’.

‘What do you mean shoes _and_ dresses? _I’ve_ got our dresses’

‘Not those. The ridiculous frilly things you tried wearing yesterday. I told you, you’ll have no cause for clothes like that here’.

‘You threw them away? Oh Mrs Gethin, you _mustn’t_ , we have to go and find them!’

‘Don’t you _dare_ tell me what I ‘must’ do. And of course I didn’t throw them in a dust bin. I sold them. How did you _think_ you were getting your lovely new outfits? Surely you don’t expect me to pay out of my own pocket’.

‘But we didn’t even _want_ new clothes. And our own dresses were much nicer, they’d have cost heaps and heaps more than these horrid things’.

‘Well, I’d say the few pennies extra they might have been is the very least you can give when I’m feeding and keeping you, and even being so kind as to give you money for sweets! I’ve never known such a rude, ungrateful girl. I don’t want to hear another word about it, or I shall tell Mr Gethin to beat you royally when he gets home, and I’m sure he’d be more than happy to oblige’.

Mrs Gethin kept a firm hold on Patsy’s arm, frogmarching her along until they reached the butcher’s shop on the next street. Here she let go and went in on her own, instructing them to wait by the door for her as it was too crowded inside for them all to pile in, and they’d doubtless show her up in any case.

It _was_ crowded – Mrs Gethin had had to join the back of a long queue, so surely she’d be in there for a while. Long enough for Patsy to run back up two streets and along the little side road to try and find where their dresses and shoes had been sold?

Maybe. If she was very lucky, and Grace waited here for her.

It shouldn’t take very long once she got there. She could just explain that Mrs Gethin had had no right to sell their clothes without permission, and _surely_ the person who had bought them would understand and give them back?

Just as she was about to suggest this plan, Patsy caught sight of her reflection in the butcher’s window and stopped, staring.

The girl gazing back at her looked pale and bad tempered, scowling fiercely like the most disagreeable child in the world. She had dark circled eyes from lack of sleep; loose tousled hair that didn’t entirely cover the large scab and livid bruise on her temple; and cheap, ill fitting clothes that looked like it was pure chance that had seen them end up as a tunic and blouse rather than a potato sack and dish cloth. The Patsy she had been before evacuation wouldn’t be allowed to speak to the Patsy she was now, much less play with her.

She realised with a jolt that if she had seen this girl on the train she might even have felt a bit afraid of her, averting her eyes while she hurried Grace past. It was a disconcerting feeling, as if Mrs Gethin was slowly chopping away bits of her after all, even if she wasn’t using the rabbit knife to do it.

All hope of getting their best dresses back died as she kept examining her new reflection. Whoever had bought them would _never_ believe such nice things really belonged to this new Patsy – even _she_ found it hard to believe. Their own clothes were gone forever, and with them another piece of the old Patsy was chopped away.

Would there be anything left at all, by the time they were allowed to go home at last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning points:  
> \- Mr Gethin makes Patsy keep eating porridge until she’s sick. This is the food trigger I warned about at the top, and is (in my opinion), the roughest part of the whole chapter. Skip down past breakfast and it shouldn't be too bad.  
> Other possible problem areas:  
> \- Grace gets slapped on the back of the legs (enough to sting but not with excessive force)  
> \- quite a bit of general scolding/threatening to hit them without following through  
> \- excessive physical labour in the form of housework
> 
> Don’t want to read about any of that? Here’s a quick chapter synopsis *SPOILERS BELOW*
> 
> Patsy and Grace get in trouble for taking the cardboard down from their window. Mrs Gethin takes their best dresses away to iron and Patsy is surprised at the apparent kindness. At breakfast time Mr Gethin punishes Patsy for telling Mrs Jenkins about them, and afterwards Patsy and Grace are made to do hours of housework without actually being taught how. In the afternoon they go to town, where Mrs Gethin buys both girls a new outfit (the cheapest she can manage) and then sends them off with a farthing to buy some sweets. When they come out they discover she has sold their best dresses and shoes. This is the reason for the new clothes and the sweet money (to keep them out the way so they couldn’t make a fuss/hear how much she got for them).
> 
> Some general authors notes/comments on the chapter, just because:
> 
> 1\. Yes, I know the sweet shop would have had signs up with prices on, and that if Patsy could understand those in maths lessons she'd understand them here too. I know, I know. But also... this way worked better for my purposes. Lets just say that Mr May likes to save on paper, and his regulars all KNOW how his pricing system works, so they don't need the signs. Or he just happened to have taken them all down to reprice things, anticipating the impending sugar shortage following the start of war. Best just not to think to hard about it, I think...
> 
> 2\. SPEAKING of not thinking too hard about things, this is not advice I followed for myself when writing the rest of the sweetshop scene. Though of course I definitely didn’t spend ages finding out the correct price for the sweets in1939 and then also how much a single sweet would weigh to work out how much they’d actually get for a farthing and what half an ounce would be in practical terms. Honestly, where do you get these wild notions?  
> (...There MAY have been actual weighing involved with our kitchen scales, but any proof you may think you have is annecdotal at best and will never hold up in a court of fandom).


	17. Patsy - pt 2 of 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning - this chapter is probably going to be the toughest in the whole fic in terms of bad things happening to Patsy and Grace. Please check the end notes if you're worried.

They were sitting at the kitchen table, Grace pulling leaves off a cabbage while Patsy attempted awkwardly to chop a carrot into little pieces with a knife that was too big for her; when all of a sudden the dog started barking. Not just a little yip of excitement like when Mrs Gethin went out to feed it, but a proper, angry sounding ‘RORORORORORORORRRRR’ that went on and on.

Patsy jumped violently, very nearly slicing the tip of her finger right off as her hand slipped on the carrot. The Gethin’s dog very rarely barked at all – in spite of it’s large, fierce appearance, it was old and lazy, and spent most of its time dozing in its kennel. To make a noise like this, something had to be very, very wrong. Her first thought was that the German’s must have arrived, and that any second there would be a gun shot and the dog would yelp, and then they’d break down the door, and...

But there wasn’t a gun shot.

Instead they heard a man’s voice – not German – he had the same accent as everyone else around here, that Patsy had now learned was Welsh. He should have sounded terrified – maybe even been screaming (Patsy would have), but instead he was _laughing._

‘There’s a good dog, it’s nice to see you too you softie. Settle down now old thing! Gruffydd! _Down_ boy!’

Mrs Gethin heard the voice too and gave a wordless cry, dropping the potato she had been scrubbing into the sink and running from the kitchen.

‘Did she run because she’s frightened? Should we run away too?’

Grace whispered this, sliding down from her seat at the table and coming to stand cautiously beside Patsy. They had never seen Mrs Gethin run before, and it should have been alarming. But Patsy had seen her expression as she left the room, and she hadn’t looked a bit scared.

‘I think she ran because she was _happy_ ’.

‘Mrs Gethin doesn’t _get_ happy. She gets cross’.

‘Shall we go and peek?’

Grace nodded, and they tiptoed out the kitchen and along the corridor, past the empty parlour. When they reached the half open front door they peeped very cautiously around it, just in case there was something awful out there that Mrs Gethin really had been running away from.

On the garden path was a tall, broad young man with slicked back brown hair and a wispy little moustache that looked too small and sparse to go with his general bulk. The dog was doing little half-leaps all around his legs, still yapping up at him every now and then, but even Patsy could see now that they were excited barks, not angry ones after all.

There was Mrs Gethin too, her arms reaching right up to hug the man tight, though he towered over her slight frame. Patsy and Grace stood in the doorway and stared. They hadn’t imagined that Mrs Gethin knew _how_ to hug, let alone that she would ever run to throw herself into the arms of a strange, giant man.

‘There now Mam, I’ve only been away two months! Anyone would think I’d been gone for years’.

Mrs Gethin stepped back from the embrace then, slapping the man lightly on the arm and giving an approximation of her usual stern glower. But even when her mouth was puckered into a frown, you could see the smile just underneath trying to peep through.

‘Don’t give me that my lad. You know perfectly well why I was fretting. All that talk before you went off for the summer, and then yesterday when they announced it – I was afraid you would sign up on the spot and never come home again! But you haven’t, thank goodness, you’re here safe and sound after all’.

‘Ah… well about that...’

‘Lewis Gethin, don’t you even think of it! You’re barely out of short trousers, you’re not old enough’.

‘I’m eighteen!’

‘Only just. You might have the height of a man, but you’re not one yet, not really. War’s no place for boys. You’re not to enlist Lewis, I mean it. Not unless you’re called up’.

‘I’m sorry Mam, it’s too late. I signed up before I came here – that’s why I left the farm early. I’ll be leaving for training tomorrow morning’.

As he spoke, Mrs Gethin’s cheeks drained of colour, as if every drop of blood had rushed from her face at once. Her frown _was_ real now, but it didn’t look irritated the way it did when she looked at Patsy and Grace. She looked _afraid_.

Mrs Gethin reached out to Lewis and he opened his arms, clearly thinking she was about to hug him again, but she didn’t. She began cuffing him with both hands, slapping ineffectually at his head and chest, though she had to reach right up to do so. Although he was much bigger and stronger than she was, he didn’t even try to push her away, just hunched his shoulders against the blows, looking oddly like an overgrown schoolboy. Perhaps in a moment Mrs Gethin would seize him by the ear and drag him to his bedroom in disgrace.

‘You _fool_ of a boy!’

‘Mam, please-’

‘Don’t you ‘Mam’ me, you silly lout. Did you ever think of me when you were signing your life away? What will I do if you’re killed on some God Forsaken battlefield? How could you be so _stupid_?’

‘Don’t go on at me Mam, you know how much I’ve always wanted to be a soldier, ever since I was a little boy. It’ll be the making of me! And I don’t suppose I’ll be gone long anyway. A short, sharp war, that’s all this’ll be. Everyone says so’.

‘You don’t _know_ that. The last one went on for _years_ , and so many boys died. Your uncle Aled-’.

She stopped, a hand over her mouth as if to keep the rest of the words in. Lewis reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, his voice going soft and cajoling as he replied.

‘It’s different this time, you’ll see. Those Germans won’t know what’s hit them. We’ll see to old Hitler and be home for Christmas, and I’ll expect a slap up tea to welcome me back. How about it, eh, Mam?’

Mrs Gethin snorted, but she lowered her hand.

‘You’ll be lucky. You won’t deserve so much as a shrivelled sprout after what you want to put me through’.

‘Does that mean I can’t stay for tea tonight?’

‘Of course you’re staying! If it’s your last night I’m not having you running off anywhere. You’ll spend the night here, so I can see you set off with a proper breakfast inside you. Don’t smile at me boy, you’re still in trouble. And don’t think you’ll be getting a special send off meal tonight either, I’ve got nothing in but a bit of tripe’.

But Lewis _was_ smiling – a big, goofy grin that said he knew he’d won even if his mother was still scolding him.

‘It just so happens that Uncle Rufus gave me these – a little going away present’.

Lewis produced a slightly bloody looking paper parcel from his bag, handing it to Mrs Gethin with a flourish like a magician doing a magic trick.

‘Steaks – three of them. So we can have a proper send off meal after all, can’t we?’

‘And what am I supposed to do with that tripe if we’re all having steak? It won’t go on much longer, the butcher let me have it cheap as it had been out a while’.

‘Never mind, I expect it’ll do for tomorrow. Or Gruffydd’ll eat it if it comes to that. Just look at them Mam, they’re top quality. Uncle Rufus said he was sending the very best, to build me up for battle’.

‘Well then he’s a fool. And so am I for indulging you – I suppose the evacuees can have the tripe so it won’t all go to waste. You’d better come through to the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea, I bet you haven’t drunk so much as a drop of water all day, I know what you’re like when you set your mind to something’.

They headed back up the garden path together, and Patsy and Grace scrambled to get out of the way before they could be seen. They didn’t even make it to the foot of the stairs before Mrs Gethin came in, her fond smile returning instantly to its usual scowl as she caught sight of them.

‘Were you naughty girls eavesdropping?

‘No...’

‘Rubbish. Get upstairs out of my sight, and don’t let me hear another peep from you until tea time, or I’ll pin those waggling ears to your heads for you’.

They fled up the stairs, but not quickly enough to miss Mrs Gethin’s muttered complaints about them as she ushered Lewis on towards the kitchen door and shut the door firmly behind them.

‘Was that lady _really_ Mrs Gethin?’

‘Of course it was! Who _else_ could she be?’

‘She looked all different’.

Patsy knew what Grace meant. Mrs Gethin _had_ looked different. Even when she was telling Lewis off and slapping him round the head, she still didn’t have her usual tight frown like she could hardly stand to look at you. Her eyes were soft and wide instead of all squinchy like the sun was too bright, and she had really, truly _hugged_ him. If they hadn’t been with her all day and seen her change from her normal self in the kitchen to this new nearly-friendly version in the garden and back again, Patsy might have wondered if it had been some secret lookalike as well.

‘Do you think she’ll be nice always now?’

‘I don’t think she’s _really_ nice now. Maybe just to _him_ , but not to us. She isn’t letting us have any steak, is she? We have to tripe instead, she said so’.

‘What actually _is_ tripe?’

Patsy didn’t want to admit that she had no more idea than Grace did. She thought it sounded like it might be a sort of fish, except the butcher didn’t sell fish, so it had to be meat of some kind.

‘I _think_ it’s a bit like chicken’.

It was probably true. Everything was a _bit_ like chicken, if you thought about it hard enough.

‘Oh, that’s alright then. I like chicken. And I like not having to do any more jobs!’

‘Yes, me too! What shall we do until supper’s ready? We could play more Orlando if you like. He could go somewhere else this time...’

But neither of them really had the energy for Orlando. It had been a very long day, and they were both exhausted, their hands sore from the morning spent scrubbing dishes and floors and clothes, their legs weary from having to practically run to keep up with Mrs Gethin’s longer strides around town. Their feet hurt too from their stiff new shoes, although the shop lady had insisted they fitted perfectly and would soften up after a few days.

In the end they just flopped onto the uncomfortable bed and lay side by side, staring up at the shadowy ceiling over their heads. After a while Patsy felt Grace’s hand creep into hers.

‘What will it be like at school?’

After everything else that had happened, Patsy had forgotten they were going to be starting school in the morning. Her tummy gave a little flutter of trepidation at the thought and her fingers tightened reflexively around Grace’s. What if it was as bad as St Agnes’? What if the teachers were like Mr and Mrs Gethin, and hated them right from the start and smacked them with their ruler, because maybe that wasn’t just for boys here. She swallowed, but didn’t say any of this. She thought hard about the things she’d used to say to this question, back in their life before evacuation, when the biggest uncertainty was their new school in the Cotswolds with the inviting prospectus. _Some_ of those things would still be true for their new school...

‘There will be lots of other children your age there, so you’ll be able to make new friends, and the teacher will show you how to write your own name, and lots of other things too. When I started learning to read, do you know the very first word they taught me?’

‘No’.

‘C- A- T – _cat!_ So you’ll be able to look through Orlando and find all the places where it says ‘cat’ for yourself’.

‘Oh, show me now! Please Patsy!’

So they went and sat as close to the open window as they could to catch the light, and looked through Orlando to find all the ‘c-a-t’s, and then moved on to Grace’s own name. She concentrated very hard, moving her finger slowly over the words to find the ones that looked the same as the ‘c-a-t’ on front, and the ‘G-r-a-c-e’ from the first page.

‘I’m reading, I’m really reading!’

‘Well done Grace! If only we had a pencil and paper we could try writing them too, your teacher would be so impressed!’

Patsy looked around the room for inspiration, but no pencil magically appeared in front of her.

‘I know what. We’ll do pretend writing. Use your finger to draw the shapes of the letters. It’ll be nearly as good’.

It wasn’t quite the same as _proper_ writing, because Grace couldn’t actually look at what she’d done, but she seemed to be enjoying it all the same. She had several goes at ‘cat’ and ‘Grace’ and then asked for more words. Patsy helped her draw out the whole alphabet, doing several goes with each letter, and then they picked words from ‘Orlando’ for her to copy. They did ‘Tinkle’ and ‘Pansy’ and ‘Blanche’, and ‘Orlando’ too of course, then ‘camping’ and ‘fish’ and ‘stream’ and more and more, so that there was no way Grace would really remember them if she saw them again later. But she enjoyed her writing lesson even so, concentrating very hard on the tip of her finger, pressing until it went white as she tried to draw her letters without wobbling. Patsy couldn’t tell if she was getting most of them right or just filling in random shapes when she forgot the letters, but she clapped and said ‘well done!’ each time anyway, and Grace beamed with pride.

By the time they were called down for supper, Grace didn’t seem a bit frightened of school anymore. She sat up at the kitchen table and went on carefully spelling out ‘c-a-t’ on the wood in front of her until Mrs Gethin slammed a plate down in front of her, very nearly trapping her fingers beneath it.

She had set Patsy and Grace’s places at one end of the kitchen table, squashed up close together, and the other three as far as they could get at the other end, as if she wanted to be able to forget they were even there. She didn’t look at either one of them as she put their meals down in front of them, just kept on chatting to Lewis and Mr Gethin as if there was no one else in the room.

It felt a bit funny to be ignored so completely, as if they might have turned invisible without realising it, but it was better than the usual constant telling off, so Patsy decided she was glad. If only Lewis would stay forever, their lives might be almost bearable, sneaking around the edges and being forgotten about most of the time.

The three Gethins tucked in happily, Mr Gethin talking loudly about what a fine meal it was, and what a good lad Lewis was to sign up right away (Mrs Gethin frowned at this and jabbed her fork into her potato so hard that that it split in half, but she didn’t say anything). The steak smelled wonderful, and Patsy’s mouth watered a little as she gazed over at their heaped plates of tender red meat and golden fried potatoes.

Her own meal wasn’t nearly so appetising.

Mrs Gethin had given them plain boiled potatoes without any butter on, carrots, cabbage, and of course, the tripe.

It didn’t look a bit like chicken.

It was very pale – almost white, and covered in deep wrinkly bits all over one side.

It looked _disgusting_.

When she tried cut a piece off, Patsy found that it was tough and rubbery, so she had to saw away at it with her knife to get a bit to detach. She raised it from her plate, breathed in, and choked. It smelled like dung and fish and rotten meat all mixed together and left out to bake under a hot sun for a week. She retched, lowering the fork quickly and leaning back from her plate to get as far away from the tripe as possible.

She couldn’t eat it. If she put this horrid thing into her mouth and felt its vile little wrinkles on her tongue and tasted that awful _smell_ , she would be sick all over her plate, even though she had eaten so little today that she didn’t really have anything to be sick _with_.

Grace was prodding suspiciously at her own piece of tripe, her face screwed up in disgust as she poked the wrinkles. Patsy gave her a little nudge and whispered very softly, hoping it wouldn’t carry to the other end of the table ‘just eat the other bits. The potato’s alright. And the carrots and cabbage’.

‘I _hate_ cabbage’.

‘Well, alright, but the carrots anyway’.

The vegetables weren’t actually very nice either. The carrots were over boiled, so they turned to mush in your mouth when you bit into them, and the cabbage was slightly gritty where Grace hadn’t quite washed the mud off properly. All of it smelled very faintly of the tripe just from sitting near it on the plate, but it was mild enough to ignore as long as you didn’t breath in as you took a bite. Patsy kept forking the slimy cabbage up bravely, determined to get rid of it quickly so she could take the taste away with her potatoes, until she found the body of a boiled slug lurking under one of her leaves. She gave a little squeal and dropped her knife, but only Grace seemed to notice. She couldn’t eat anymore cabbage either after that, and she began to feel a bit worried about what would happen when the Gethins’ saw how much they were leaving on their plates.

Even when they had both finished their potatoes and carrots, their plates looked much too full. Patsy considered trying to hide the uneaten food somehow, but _h_ _ow_? She might be able to wrap some of it up in her handkerchief, but certainly not all of it, and it would be painfully obvious what she’d done if she kept the full hankie in her hand, or tried to cram it into her tunic pocket. For the first time ever, she wished the dog was allowed into the house, so she could secretly feed their uneaten tripe to him, but he wasn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t have eaten it anyway, not when it smelled this bad.

They couldn’t hide it, they couldn’t give it away. But maybe they could sort of… rearrange it? Patsy picked her knife and fork back up and cut her tripe into little pieces, hoping it would look like she had eaten more that way. It _sort_ of worked, so she switched their plates quickly and cut up Grace’s for her, shredding the slimy cabbage too for good measure. Their plates still looked full when she’d finished, but maybe not _quite_ so much.

They sat tensely after that, hoping the Gethins’ would continue ignoring them so thoroughly that they wouldn’t even glance at their plates, and they would be able to get rid of it without any trouble. But as she thought this, Patsy couldn’t help looking anxiously over to their end of the table. Mr Gethin must have noticed the movement. He caught her eye and held her gaze for a long moment, before looking down at her plate. He frowned.

‘Eat up girls, you’ll be here all night at this rate’.

Patsy swallowed hard, her hand going automatically to her pocket in search of Matilda (but of course she was still in her own dress pocket upstairs, utterly out of reach in this horrible new tunic).

‘Actually Mr Gethin, we’re both quite full up now. We’d like to be excused from the table please’.

‘Well, you’re not excused. We don’t waste food in this house. You eat up that tripe’.

‘I- I can’t...’

The words choked a bit coming out, but she really, truly couldn’t do it. Not even a bite. Not even a _lick_.

Mrs Gethin and Lewis had gone quiet now too, watching and listening. Patsy’s cheeks heated, but she kept her hands resolutely in her lap, refusing to pick up her fork. They had to sit with their cooling plates of uneaten tripe in front of them while Mrs Gethin served everyone else with baked apples, stuffed with raisins and sprinkled with sugar. Patsy’s tummy rumbled as she smelled the sweet scent of them, but she didn’t weaken.

Once the apples had been eaten, Mr and Mrs Gethin both looked again at Patsy and Grace.

‘You haven’t eaten a single bite of that tripe have you? Do I have to come over there and shove it down your throat for you?’

‘Now Henri, I expect the girls just aren’t hungry’.

Patsy’s mouth actually dropped open the tiniest bit at that (although she clamped it shut again at once, in case someone tried to shove a forkful of tripe into the gap). Had she been wrong about Mrs Gethin being nice now? Could she really be about to save them?

‘We’ll wrap it up, and they can eat it tomorrow for breakfast. It won’t go to waste’.

Her tummy lurched, as if she had missed a step going down the stairs. Of _course_ Mrs Gethin would never take their side. And cold tripe for breakfast would be even worse than hot tripe for dinner.

But even knowing that, she still couldn’t eat it. Not for anything.

Mr Gethin gave his especially nasty grin and nodded.

‘Excellent idea. They can have it for breakfast, and if they won’t eat it then we’ll serve it up again for dinner, and again at every meal until they’ve finished every scrap. They’ll eat it gladly when they get hungry enough’.

Patsy shook her head numbly, but Mr Gethin acted as though he hadn’t seen. He clapped Lewis on the shoulder and suggested they went through to the lounge for a little glass of something.

‘You come too Missus, the little girlies can clean up in here’.

Mr Gethin and Lewis left the room, but Mrs Gethin hung back a moment.

‘You-’ this was to Patsy ‘-get these dishes washed up. You-’ Grace ‘-come with me. We need to get you ready for school tomorrow’.

‘We already did that Mrs Gethin. I’ve been showing Grace her letters’.

‘You mind your own business, I wasn’t talking to you’.

She put a hand on Grace’s shoulder to guide her out the room, but Grace held back, clearly not wanting to be alone with the Gethins.

‘Patsy?’

Patsy bit her lip. _She_ didn’t want Grace to be alone with them either.

‘Don’t I need to get ready for school too? Why doesn’t Grace help with the washing up, and then we’ll both come’.

‘No, not you. Not until that unsightly scab has gone anyway. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss, I’m not planning to hurt the girl. Now do as you’re _told_ ’.

Mrs Gethin had her dangerous look, no hint of the new smiley version visible now. There was nothing they could do. Patsy nodded reluctantly.

‘Go on Grace, it’ll be alright. I’ll be just here, only one room away if you need me’.

So Grace went off with Mrs Gethin, and Patsy stayed to clean up the kitchen. She felt oddly frightened, as if she might never see her sister again, even though she knew it was silly. Grace was only in the next room, what could possibly happen to her? The Gethins were horrid, but they weren’t _really_ child eating ogres or witches. They wouldn’t actually _hurt_ her.

She did her best to get through the dishes quickly even so, but it was impossible. There were so many more than there had been at breakfast time, and they were all greasy too. They stayed resolutely coated with it no matter how hard she rubbed at them, until Patsy was nearly crying with frustration. What was she doing _wrong_? Lots of other people did dishes every day and never seemed to have any problems.

She gave up on the still slightly oily pan she had been scrubbing, and turned to reach for the next dish. As she did so, she caught sight of her own tripe-filled plate on the table.

An idea occurred to her. A dangerous, wonderful idea.

If she threw the tripe away now – hid it deep at the bottom of the bin where no one would find it, and then washed up the plate; maybe by the morning Mrs Gethin would have forgotten all about it. If she didn’t, Patsy could claim she had eaten it while they were all in the other room, and even if no one believed her, they couldn’t make them eat something that wasn’t there.

As quickly and quietly as she could, she scooped both portions onto a single plate and tiptoed with it to the bin. It was only half full, but if she put the tripe right at the bottom it should still get properly hidden so no one would guess. It was disgusting having to dig through the rubbish with her bare hand to tip it in deep enough – wet tea leaves stuck to her arm, and her fingers tangled unpleasantly with a clump of hair Mrs Gethin must have pulled from her brush one morning. She shuddered, but managed not to squeal as she withdrew her arm and poured the tripe and cabbage into the hollow she’d dug for it. All the time she was covering it up, she was terrified that there would be a sudden shout from the doorway, followed by a hard smack. Now it was too late to change her mind, she wondered suddenly whether Mr Gethin might make them eat the tripe anyway. He could dig it right out the rubbish and serve it to them with all bits of dustpan grit and bin slime stuck to it.

Oh no.

She scurried back to the sink, rinsing her arm off as fast as she could to hide her crime. Surely he wouldn’t look in the bin, would he? Not right down at the bottom. He wouldn’t. It would all be alright…

As she was cleaning the last of the sticky bits from her arm, there came a sudden, loud noise.

It wasn’t the shout she had been fearing. It was worse.

A scream.

_Grace._

Patsy ran, not even stopping to turn off the tap in her haste to get to her sister.

‘ _Gracie?_ ’

Grace didn’t answer, just kept yelling – her fiercest tantrum howl of outrage and indignation.

Patsy arrived in the lounge in time to see Mr Gethin holding Grace pinned tight between his knees, his hands on either side of her head under her hair, stopping her from moving so much as an inch.

Mrs Gethin was standing over them both, a large pair of scissors in her hand. As Patsy stepped into the room she snipped away the last strands of Grace’s long hair to join the sad little heap on the floor at her feet. Grace’s shouts turned to sobs as she saw the last bit of hair fall in front of her eyes. When Mr Gethin removed his hands they could see that the cut was ragged and uneven, as if Grace had tried to do it herself without a mirror.

It looked _awful_.

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

As soon as Mrs Gethin stood back, Mr Gethin grabbed Grace by the back of her pinafore and hauled her up over his lap, her head hanging down one side, legs kicking uselessly in the air on the other. He kept one hand firmly on her back to stop her slipping away no matter how hard she wriggled.

‘Right then Missy, I warned you what would happen if you didn’t stand nicely and let Mrs Gethin cut your hair so you don’t catch nits, didn’t I? Well then’.

In a second, he had yanked down her knickers and was spanking her hard on her bare bottom and legs. These weren’t little slaps like Mrs Gethin had given, they were real whacks, Mr Gethin’s hard hand cracking down mercilessly against Grace’s soft skin. Her angry sobs turned into real screams of agony and terror as she struggled to get free, and Patsy couldn’t bear it. It was the worst noise she had ever heard, like no sound Grace had made before – not even when she’d knocked a jug of hot water over herself and got scalded.

Without pausing to think, Patsy dashed across the room as fast as she could and grabbed hold of Mr Gethin’s hand, catching it with both of hers as he raised it for another slap and hanging on with all her strength.

‘Run Grace, _RUN!_ ’

But Grace couldn’t. She slipped down from Mr Gethin’s knee, but stayed kneeling on the floor, crying too hard even to draw breath, let alone get up and run.

Mr Gethin wrenched his arm free from Patsy’s grip with such force that it knocked her off her feet, and she fell to the floor, crumpled in a heap beside her sister. She tried to scramble up again, reaching for Grace’s hand to pull her up and away too, but before she could move, Mr Gethin had her upper arm in a grip of iron, and was dragging her upright.

‘You don’t _ever_ interfere with my discipline. Do you understand?’

‘Y-y-’

‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’

‘ _Yes_ Mr Gethin, I understand!’

Patsy was sobbing too now, too terrified to do anything but stand and tremble, as Mr Gethin began undoing his belt with his free hand.

‘You might be too old for a smacked bottom, but don’t think that means I won’t punish you too, you little brat. You’ll be very sorry by the time I’m done with you’.

She watched, parallelised as he drew the belt from his trousers, loop by loop. Once it was free, he took a firm hold on the leather, letting the heavy metal buckle hang free.

‘N-no. _Please_ -’

‘Dad-’

‘Henri-’

But he didn’t listen to any of them. He raised his arm lightning fast and brought it back down hard. Patsy scrunched her eyes tight shut as the belt came towards her. Time seemed to slow and stretch out like elastic, everything suddenly crystal clear. She could hear the whistling of the belt through the air, the slight gasps of the onlookers, Grace sobbing on the floor. And then the sickening _crack_ as the buckle struck.

She waited for the pain to flare into life, to feel blood running down her arm or back or chest, to scream as the agony gripped her. But the only pain was the slightest sting on the back of her hand. Had he actually _killed_ her with a single blow? Perhaps he had broken her skull and she was a ghost now, and would never feel anything again…

She peeped cautiously out through slitted eyelids, afraid she might see her own crumpled body lying at her insubstantial ghost feet. But she was very much alive, and seemed to be unhurt. There was no blood, no welt on her skin, no pain.

Mr Gethin hadn’t hit her at all.

He’d struck the wooden stool he had been sitting on a moment before instead – so hard that a little sliver had flown free and hit Patsy’s hand. She stared at the dent he had left in the hard wood, imagining how much worse it would have been on her own soft flesh. She was shaking badly, her knees very nearly collapsing under her when Mr Gethin released his grip on her arm and began re-threading his belt.

‘You set one foot out of line again, and it won’t be a warning next time. It’s not an idle threat, is it Lewis lad?’

Lewis looked as pale as Patsy felt, his big hands gripping the arms of his chair very tight.

‘No Dad, it’s not’.

‘Right. Now, get upstairs the pair of you, before I change my mind’.

Still sobbing, Patsy reached for Grace and pulled her up from the floor. There was a little wet patch where she had been kneeling. She had gotten so frightened she’d wet herself. Patsy didn’t say anything, hoping that no one would notice the damp bit of rug, and it might be dry by morning.

They stumbled up the stairs back to their room, hanging onto each other all the way. Even inside with the door shut tight, it still didn’t feel safe. Any second Mr Gethin could come up and decide to start hitting them again.

Patsy wished she hadn’t thrown out the tripe.

Of _course_ he would find it, and of course he would make them eat it. He’d probably even follow up on his threat and force it down their throats himself, so they’d have to swallow or be choked. And then he’d still spank Grace again and beat Patsy with his belt afterwards for daring to throw it away in the first place…

She imagined choking on cold tripe, slimy and gritty, the smell of it thick in her throat as Mr Gethin forced forkful after forkful into her mouth until her cheeks bulged with it and she couldn’t breathe-

No. She couldn’t even bear to think about it. They had to do something to make it stop. Something, _anything_... but they were just children. What could they do?

What could they do?

_What could they do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning points:  
> \- More food based threats, but no actual force feeding this time  
> \- Grace gets held down to have her hair cut short against her will (with the intention of avoiding headlice at school)  
> \- Grace gets smacked on the bottom/legs - she's hit with a bare hand only, but harder than would be considered appropriate for a child her age even when hitting was a common punishment  
> -Patsy tries to stop the smacking and gets knocked over, then threatened with a belt. She believes she is about to be hit with it, but Mr Gethin hits the stool next to her instead - she will NOT actually be hurt (just very frightened).  
> \- Grace gets scared enough to wet herself during this, but only Patsy notices so there is no fallout from that in this chapter
> 
> Don’t want to read about any of that? Here’s a quick chapter synopsis *SPOILERS BELOW*
> 
> Lewis Gethin (their 18 year old son) comes home unexpectedly and announces he as enlisted in the army. Mrs Gethin scolds him but still invites him in for dinner. Patsy does some writing practise with Grace in preparation for school the next day, and then at dinner time they are served tripe. Patsy and Grace refuse to eat it and Mrs Gethin says they'll save it for their breakfast. Patsy is left to do the dishes while Grace is taken 'to get ready for school'. Left alone, Patsy throws the tripe in the bin and then hears Grace yelling. She runs in to find Mr Gethin holding her while Mrs Gethin cuts her hair short to prevent her catching nits at school. Afterwards Mr Gethin smacks Grace for fighting the haircut, and Patsy runs in to stop him. She grabs his hand and he stops hitting Grace, but turns on Patsy and makes her think she is about to be hit with his belt. He hits the stool beside her instead to frighten her, and then sends them to their room. Chapter ends in their bedroom, with Patsy trying to come up with a way out of their situation.


	18. Patsy - pt 3 of 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… I don’t think people liked the last chapter much? I’m sorry if it was a Bit Much, I hope no one will give up reading this story altogether because of it. Please be assured that there’s nothing like that in the coming chapter.
> 
> The only warning I have for this chapter is that there will be references to things that have happened previously. I’m not planning to keep warning for those mentions (unless someone asks me to, in which case of course I'm happy to oblige!), but I will start adding content notes again if they become necessary for new things at any point.

‘T-try to stop crying now. We have to be very, very quiet. We’re going to run away’.

Grace gulped, knuckling her eyes hard, but she couldn’t completely stop her tears.

‘It _hurts_ ’.

‘I know Gracie. You’re being so brave. We just need to be quiet for a tiny bit and then Mr Gethin won’t ever be able to hit us again. Once we’re away from the house you can cry as much as you like, but just try to hold it in for a little while so we can sneak out’.

Grace nodded, but they still had to wait a few minutes while she gulped and snuffled a bit more, trying very hard to control the noise. Patsy forced her own sobs back inside too, cramming them down as deep as she could so she could look after them both. She made sure everything they owned was packed away in their case, or tucked into their gas mask boxes ready to take away with them. What else? Their shoes were by the back door ready for visits to the WC so that was alright, but their coats and hats were hanging up by the front door. Could they possibly risk going past the parlour to get them?

No.

They’d be better sneaking out the back door, where they wouldn’t have to pass the Gethins, and just leave their outdoor things. It would be  probably be pr etty cold being out all night without them, but it was better than risking being caught.

By now Grace had managed to stop sobbing out loud, although there were still tears running down her cheeks. Patsy decided it would do. She took her sister’s hand and led her very cautiously back out into the corridor, then held her still at the top of the stairs for a long moment, listening for any hint of danger from below. Through the open parlour door they could hear the faint sounds of conversation – even the occasional laugh. They sounded just as if they were a nice, normal family, having a nice, normal evening together. As if nothing bad had happened at all.

It was as safe as it was going to get. Time to go.

Every step downwards was like tipping herself over the edge of a cliff, her foot questing slowly, carefully into the empty air, feeling for the next step. Each time it felt as if she might keep reaching forever into a void that never ended, but each time her foot found the next place to stand after all, just a little further down than she expected it to be.

Halfway down a board squealed as Patsy lowered her weight onto it and she froze, balanced precariously between two stairs. She wobbled, and for a terrifying moment she thought she would fall – with one hand hanging onto the case and the other holding Grace, she couldn’t even steady herself on the wall and might easily go crashing all the way to the floor below, the case thumping loudly down behind her to alert the Gethins to what was happening.

But she managed to regain her balance, and eased her foot further along the step to find a bit that didn’t squeak. They kept going.

At long last they reached the flat expanse of the hallway, and Patsy let out a held breath, slowly. They had made it through their first challenge undiscovered. The kitchen door was nearest the stairway, standing open and inviting, no sound coming from it but the faint gurgle and woosh of the tap she had forgotten to turn off, still running steadily.

All the same, Patsy hesitated. She looked longingly at their coats and hats, hanging on their hooks by the front door. They would be so _cold_ without them – there hadn’t even been room in the case to pack jumpers, not when it had to do for both of them, and the nights were getting cool enough that their single blanket already wasn’t really enough even inside the house.

The _blanket_. If _only_ Patsy had thought to bring it with them, they could have wrapped right up in it and it would have kept them even warmer than their coats. It might technically be stealing, but Patsy was pretty sure that the money Mrs Gethin got for their best dresses and shoes would have paid for twenty blankets, so it was only fair for them to take _one_. It didn’t matter anyway though, because it was much too late now. Someone would be bound to hear if she tried to sneak all the way up and then back down the stairs, and every moment they stayed in the house increased their risk of getting caught.

She glanced once more at their lovely warm coats, with their snug furry collars and thick linings – so close along the short hallway and yet so completely out of reach – and then turned resolutely away. Let those be the last little bits of Patsy and Grace that the Gethins ever got to take from them.

Things moved swiftly after that. They tiptoed across the kitchen in a matter of seconds, pausing only to thrust their feet into their stiff new lace ups on their way out. Patsy eased open the back door, turning the handle very slowly so it wouldn’t clunk or rattle, and left it ajar behind them so its closing couldn’t give them away. Then they were out in the back garden, running across the scrubby, overgrown lawn. Behind the WC there was a low dry stone wall, half collapsed in the middle so that even Grace with her sore legs could clamber over with no more trouble than she’d managed the stairs.

On the other side there was a narrow band of trees, and then they were on the road. They had come out on the opposite side of the house from where they had arrived the previous Friday, and Patsy had no idea whether this road would join up with the other one, or if it was even going in the same direction, but it didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered now – the only thing in the world – was to get as far and as fast away from the Gethins as they could, and never come back. Patsy adjusted her grip on the case, gave her sister’s hand a little squeeze, and then whispered.

‘Run Grace, _run!_ ’

They _did_ run, at first. Feet pounding along the quiet road, breath gasping in and out of their lungs as they forced themselves to keep going, and keep going, and _keep going._ The house receded behind them until they could no longer make out the shape of it when they turned to look, but it was still too close. Patsy could feel its presence as a prickle on the back of her neck, like someone watching her, chasing her, reaching out a hand to grab her…

For a while that thought spurred her on, pushing her to run faster even as her legs turned to water beneath her and her lungs burned for air. She wanted to get so far away that even the memory of the Gethins would be left behind. She wouldn’t feel truly safe until she knew th at no one they met would know who Mr and Mrs Gethin were, or Patsy and Grace either, so they couldn’t ever make the connection between them and send them back to That House.

But they couldn’t run forever.

The case d ragged at Patsy’s arm like a ship’s anchor and bang ed against her leg at every step as if determined to trip her. Every time it struck, it bounced and twisted in her grip, so that her wrist and arm as well as her legs grew sore. The shoes were rubbing worse than ever too, and Patsy could feel several big blisters coming up on her feet, making her hobble awkwardly.  Grace had started sobbing again as they ran, though she didn’t try to stop  moving . She just kept running and crying, making awful, gulp-wheezy sounds as she tried to run and breath and cry all at the same time.

It was no good.

Patsy slowed them to a walk, releasing Grace’s hand to put an arm right round her instead.

‘Well done Gracie, you were so brave! You didn’t make any noise at all, and you did such a good job running’.

Grace nodded a little, but she was still crying hard. ‘Hurts, Patsy. It _burns_ ’.

‘Oh Grace...’

Patsy stopped and inched the back of Grace’s dress a little way up her thighs to see the lowest slap marks. They looked red and angry, standing out lividly from Grace’s pale skin in raised weals.

‘Your poor legs...’

What would Maud have done now?

When Grace had burned herself, she’d put something from the medicine cabinet on the scalds that she said would make it better, but Patsy wasn’t sure what it had been. Even if they knew, they didn’t have any of it, and couldn’t get any either... But _before_ that, just a moment after the jug tipped when Grace first started screaming, Maud had taken her to the tap and run cold water over the hot places, and that had made them feel a bit better. Grace wasn’t actually _burned_ this time, but the skin felt warm when Patsy touched a welt with a gentle finger, and Grace had said it _felt_ burny, so maybe cold water would help.

‘Lets see if we can find a little stream or something. I’ll dip my handkerchief and put it on your poor sore legs, and it will help them feel better’.

They couldn’t find any kind of water at all though, not so much as a single puddle by the side of the road, though they trudged on and on down one road after another, looking all about them as they went.

‘Shall I tell you an Orlando story to help you think of something different until we find some water?’

Grace shook her head.

‘I don’t want Orlando... Will you tell me a Patsy and Grace story?’

‘A story about _us_?’

‘A happy one, without any Gethins in it’.

They had spent less than three days with the Gethins, and yet Patsy had to think hard to remember what life had been like before. Before the Gethins, before Miss Richmond and the night in the hall, before the train, even before London. She could remember the things they had done in that far away other life in Singapore, but she couldn’t quite remember how it had _felt_ , to be two well cared for little girls who had never been slapped or starved or known for certain that they were about to die (even if they hadn’t actually done the dying part).

Making up an ordinary life story where the girls went to school and got cuddled by their nanny and played piano while their Mama sang to them felt so _unlikely_ now. Even inside her own head the words stayed flat and lifeless, like paper cut outs of people instead of real life, and no matter how hard she tried to make everything happy for them, the dark shadow of War and evacuation loomed, ready to snatch the girls away from everything they knew as soon as she let her concentration slip.

It wouldn’t do. They needed something totally different. Something easier to imagine...

‘Once upon a time there were too little girls called Patsy Bossy-Bum, and Fairy-Grace-’ she paused, glancing at her sister to see if this would make her laugh. She _didn’t_ laugh, but she smiled a nearly-laughing sort of smile, and that was close enough.

‘They got tired of their plain old house in London, so one day they decided to go away for a little holiday’.

Grace stiffened at the familiar phrase and Patsy hurried on, kicking herself for calling it that.

‘They didn’t get on a boring old train or into any silly old car or anything like that. Instead Fairy-Grace called out to her faithful pet – a giant white cat with fur so fluffy and thick it was like a great, warm snow drift that you could burrow right into, and that’s why her name was Snowy. The two little girls climbed up onto Snowy’s back, and she began to run. She ran along the streets and leapt right up over roof tops so they were practically up in the clouds, and on and on out of the city, through the countryside, until they reached the sea. The little girls thought they were going to have a seaside holiday, but Snowy just wanted to go fishing in the sea before they kept going.

So Patsy Bossy-Bum and Fairy-Grace went to play on the beach while Snowy got her dinner, and they built a giant sand castle, so big they could walk right inside it. Patsy Bossy-Bum made a seaweed and shell crown for Fairy-Grace, and made her the queen of the whole beach, and all the mermaids swam up to see the lovely castle...’

Patsy went on and on elaborating their adventures while in reality they limped along one narrow road after another. They swam with the mermaids to their own underwater kingdom, where they both got magic shell necklaces so they could grow mermaid tails and play with all the fish and dolphins and hunt for pearls and sunken pirate treasure. When they got tired of the sea they swam back to the beach and joined up with Snowy again. They ate giant ice creams for dinner and leapt right across the sea on Snowy’s back to visit green jungles and white snowscapes and yellow deserts, but all of their adventures were very gentle and fun. They weren’t ever in any danger at all, and everywhere they went people were kind to them and gave them toys and treats, and everyone especially loved Fairy-Grace.

Grace’s tears dried to salt trails on her cheeks as she listened, and sometimes she really would laugh out loud, or chip in with an idea of what they should do next. She spoke very, very quietly and walked with the fingers of her free hand in her mouth most of the time, but her eyes shone even through the redness of recent crying.

Patsy wished _she_ was little enough to get so lost in a made up world the way Grace could, and ignore the pressing problems of the real one. She kept on with the story, but even as one part of her mind was trying to come up with new treats to delight Fairy-Grace with, the rest had begun looking around her at the road they were on, trying to work out where they were. When they had started running, her only thought was to get as far away from the Gethins as they could as fast as possible, whichever direction it took them in; and then to try and coax Grace back into herself when she had looked so badly hurt and frightened. Now the immediate danger had passed, she was starting to worry that she didn’t recognise anything around them. It had felt like they were running in the same general direction they had come from on the cart – but were they really? And how far away _was_ it back to the next town?

It was starting to get dark.

Should they stay by the road, or try to find a field or an empty barn to spend the night in? Did people do that in real life, or was it just for stories? Maybe in real life the barn doors would all be locked tight, and there would be angry farmers who would chase them away, or hand them over to the Gethins…

They wouldn’t look for a barn.

They’d keep walking for as long as they could, and when they couldn’t go any further they’d curl up under a hedge until it got light again, and then they’d w alk some more . Eventually they would come to another town, and when they got there they could ask for help finding Phyllis. P atsy could say she was their sister w ho they’d been accidentally separated  from ,  and now that she and Grace weren’t dress ed in their fine, expensive clothes, people might actually believe them. Her tunic and Grace’s pinafore weren’t so  _very_ different from the kind of clothes Phyllis had worn – i f anything Phyllis m ight look too  neat and  well dressed to be associated with  _them_ now, rather than the other way around.  She thought she should be able to make her voice sound a bit like Phyllis’ too,  if she t ried hard to remember . Grace probably couldn’t manage that, but if she stayed mostly quiet and talked with her fingers in her mouth  ( as she was bound to do anyway ) , maybe no one would notice.

It would work, it had to. They wouldn’t be able to give their own names though, when they reached whichever town they made it to. If they managed to find someone who could tell them where Phyllis was supposed to be billeted, they might also know that Patsy and Grace Mount were meant to be staying with Mr and Mrs Gethin, and that would be much too dangerous.

‘Grace? What if… what if Patsy Bossy-Bum and Fairy-Grace made up special new names to call each other, as part of a secret mission? What do you think Fairy-Grace would choose?’

‘I think she’d pick… Grace’.

‘But that’s just your- I mean, her name. It has to be something _different_ , or it’s not a secret mission name’.

‘It _is_ something different. I don’t mean Grace like _my_ name is Grace, I mean like Grace from Orlando’.

‘Mmm, I still think it needs to _sound_ different too though, or other people might not know it was cat-Grace instead of girl-Grace’.

‘Fairy-Grace you mean’.

‘Yes, sorry. Fairy-Grace. So what else might she pick?’

‘She could be Tinkle...’

Patsy imagined introducing people to her little sister Tinkle, and might almost have laughed, if their situation wasn’t so serious.

‘Well… That maybe sounds a bit too much like a wee wee, if people didn’t know about Orlando. Maybe she could be Blanche instead? That’s a proper name, and it matches with Snowy because Blanche is a white cat too. You wouldn’t mind being called Blanche, would you?’

‘Tinkle is my _favourite_ … but alright, Fairy-Grace can be called Blanche. What will Patsy Bossy-Bum be called?’

‘I think… I think I- she’ll, be Alice. Like Alice in Wonderland’.

‘Doesn’t she want to be Orlando? Or she could be Pansy, because she has a bit of orange on her too like you do’.

‘No, I don’t think so. She’s going to be Alice’.

Grace shrugged, clearly thinking this a boring choice, but didn’t argue.

‘What secret mission are they going to do?’

‘Well, I thought Blanche and Alice might have a mission to- to find their friend Barley Sugar Fliss’.

‘Oh yes! Are _we_ going to go and find Fliss now too?’

‘I thought maybe we could _try_ to find her. Would that be alright?’

‘Yesyesyes! I _love_ Fliss. I want to see her again!’

‘Me too. But we’ll have to be so careful. We’ll need to get help to find her, and if anyone knows who we really are they might try to send us back to the Gethins’.

Grace gave a little gasp, looking quickly all around her as if someone might be sneaking up to catch her and send her back there at that very moment, so Patsy added hurriedly

‘Of course we wouldn’t let them, we’d run away again long before they could manage it; but it would be quicker to get to Phyllis if no one knew who we were at all. That’s why I thought we should use our special mission names instead. Do you think we could try being Blanche and Alice right now, so we can practice?’

‘Alright Patsy’.

Patsy sighed, but she didn’t scold. Grace was only little and she was doing her best even though her legs must still be very sore and she must be so tired and hungry by now.

‘Alright _Alice_ , you mean’.

‘Alright Alice’.

Grace giggled a bit, and it did feel funny, being referred to by this new name that didn’t feel like hers. It felt a bit like a game (but it wasn’t, she had to remember that. It was deadly serious).

‘Alright Blanche. Well in that case, I think the first thing that we, Alice and Blanche, should do, is find somewhere to have a picnic supper’.

‘Oh yes, oh yes! Shall we sit here? On the grassy bit?’

Patsy considered. They had only seen people twice since they’d been walking. Once a car had passed by, the driver not even seeming to notice them standing at the edge of the road as he sped on to some other place; once a young woman on a bicycle. They had heard her tinging her bell around the corner before they saw her, and Patsy had pulled Grace down to crouch among the overgrown tangle of grass and weeds along the verge, so she hadn’t noticed them either. But if they sat down here and started having a picnic on their own, well away from any houses on a cool September evening in the gathering darkness, anyone who happened by would be bound to notice something was wrong.

‘Lets squeeze right through the hedge into the field, it’ll be much nicer, like our own secret place. Shall we Blanche?’

Grace agreed, and they walked along the hedge until they found a spot where it thinned out just enough for them to wriggle their way through. Patsy felt almost as though she really _was_ Alice crawling through the rabbit hole as she squeezed into the small gap. She got a little bit scratched, but made it through alright, and then held back the branches so that Grace could crawl through after her without getting caught on the twigs.

The field they came out in made for a bit of a disappointing Wonderland – just acres of golden brown stubble where some plant had been cut short, but at least no one would see them here.

Grace winced as she tried to sit, getting back up onto her knees at once. ‘It’s _sore_ ’.  
  
Of _course_ it would be sore for her to sit on her poor smacked bottom, with no cushion or anything to soften the ground for her. Patsy hadn’t thought of it, and she felt a stab of shame.

If _only_ she hadn’t let Mrs Gethin separate them, maybe none of it would ever have happened. She could have protected Grace somehow – stopped them cutting her hair off at all, or bitten Mr Gethin hard before he could start smacking her, so he would forget all about Grace and punish Patsy instead. She was supposed to be Grace’s Little Mama, and not only had she failed to stop her being hurt, she hadn’t even been able to find any cold water to soothe her slapped legs, or provide a cushion to make it easier to sit down. She was no good as a big sister, she kept getting everything _wrong_...

But Grace was looking at her, expecting an answer, so she had to find one somehow. Even if she _was_ a bad big sister, she was the only one Grace had.

‘You could… you could lie on your tummy instead, and lean up on your elbows. Then it won’t hurt the smacks’.

Grace looked a little doubtful, but did as she suggested, trying to work out how to raise herself up comfortably and still keep at least one hand free to eat with.

‘You do it too Patsy’.

‘ _Alice_. But alright, if you really want me to’.

Patsy stretched out on her front, narrowly avoiding a plant with spiky leaves that tried to prickle her as she settled, and found that actually, she felt safer in this position than she had sitting up. It was like being a tiger crouching on its belly in the undergrowth, hidden on all sides from anyone who might be looking for it. She liked the idea of being a tiger, rather than the frightened bunny rabbit waiting for Mrs Gethin to catch them and chop them with her knife. A tiger was brave and powerful, and wouldn’t let anyone spank it and send it to bed hungry. A tiger would bite their head off if they tried. Inside her own head, Patsy roared and showed her terrible fangs, and Mrs Gethin ran from her, screaming. It was a good thought.

She pulled out the provisions they had stored and began dividing up the food. It didn’t look quite as much as she’d been imagining, now it was spread out in front of them. She knew it would be sensible to save half for breakfast in the morning, but they were both feeling almost dizzy with emptiness after a long day with very little to eat, and it seemed too cruel to tell Grace she had to stay hungry after all.

They ate everything. A slice of treacle tart each, then one of fruit cake, then the apple, nibbled determinedly between them until their was nothing left but the thinnest thread of core. Patsy even brought out the sweets from Mr May and their precious second pack of rolos, though she did so regretfully. She had _so_ wanted to save them to eat with Phyllis, to celebrate them all being together again. But they needed them _now_. She kept back just three rolos (one each), then she and Grace ate up the rest between them.  
  
It reminded them both of sitting with Phyllis on the train, sucking slowly on their chocolate and feeling so hopeful and content, with no idea what was waiting for them at the other end. Maybe when they got back to Phyllis, it would feel that way again. She would look after them and help them, and wouldn’t ever let anyone hit Grace or make them eat tripe, not ever again.

Patsy wasn’t stupid, she knew it was going to be very difficult to find Phyllis, even if they did get to another town. Even if they found someone who knew where all the evacuees were billeted, and didn’t get found out and sent back themselves. If they could walk that far. If they were even walking the right way. If they could keep going with no more food. If they could find a stream or something to drink from. If the Gethins didn’t discover their empty room and come looking for them. If they could get through a whole night outside on their own, because it was mostly dark already and there was no town in sight yet. There were so _many_ ifs.  
  
But they had to try, because they didn’t have anyone else in the world they could run away to. Mrs Jenkins _had_ said she’d help them, but she had also told them to hang on with the Gethins at least until next Sunday, and that was nearly a whole week away, and even _then_ she might not be able to move them. Mama was much too far away to help – they’d never make it all the way to London, and anyway, perhaps she wouldn’t recognise them anymore even if they did. They didn’t look a bit like themselves now – Patsy with her loose tangle of hair and hideous brown tunic, Grace with her poor, shorn head and cheap, old fashioned pinafore. If they ran to Mama she might just slam the door in their faces, refusing to believe that two such shabby creatures could be the same daughters she had sent off looking so neat only four days ago.

Patsy swallowed her last rolo without tasting it, and looked up at the dark grey of the sky. It was getting too cold to be sitting out in just their dresses and thin shirts. She could already feel bumps breaking out across her bare arms and legs as cold from the ground seeped through her clothes and a chilly breeze shivered over them. Even gummed as they were with sticky caramel, Grace’s teeth had begun to chatter a little.

All of a sudden Patsy realised how small they both were, and how alone in this great big field, in the gathering gloom of night. She didn’t feel much like a fierce tiger anymore, just a  lost  little girl  out past her bedtime.

Fear hit her then.

Not the fear that had been driving her all this time – of being caught by the Gethins and punished for running away. This was a deeper, desperate, lonely fear. The terror of nightmares you can’t wake up from, the child’s fear of the dark and of being abandoned. Her heart thumped as around her every shadow became a monster, every breath of wind the moan of a ghost waiting to run its cold fingers down her back. Little girls weren’t supposed to be out by themselves at night. It was a time for things that lurked and oozed, and only the safety of bed covers and pillows could really protect you from them.

She swallowed down a whimper as she wondered if maybe they should turn round and run right back to the Gethins’ after all. At least then they wouldn’t be lost, and the night would be shut safely outside their cardboard covered window…

Patsy opened her mouth, ready to say that maybe they had made a mistake after all – but the eyes that met hers were still red from crying, and they looked so tired – hollow, almost, as if Grace had curled up small inside herself where she couldn’t be hurt anymore.

It wasn’t the running or the dark or the thirst that had given her that look. It was Mr Gethin. It was being held down and hurt and humiliated, and knowing there was nothing she could do about it.

No. They couldn’t ever go back.

It didn’t matter how cold they were, or how tired. Even if there really  _were_ monsters out here waiting to eat them, the monsters inside the Gethins’ house were worse.

‘Come on, lets keep going’.

Patsy p aused, expecting Grace to whine that she was fed up with walking – that her feet hurt and she wanted to be carried, the way she always used to do whenever they went on a long walk, but she didn’t say anything at all. Her mood too seemed to have shifted while they sat,  and at Patsy’s words she got stiffly back to her feet and then stood waiting,  as wooden and indifferent  as a pull-along toy on a string .

P atsy almost wished that she  _would_ complain, maybe even have a proper tantrum, because this quiet resignation was w orse than any amount of whinging.  It was like the Gethins had chopped away pieces of the old Grace too, and the girl she was now  didn’t seem to be the same sister she had known for nearly five years. She was smaller, and quieter, and seemed broken in a way that frightened Patsy horribly. But she didn’t know how to fix her, or what else to do but keep on going.

Once they had squeezed back through the hedge again Grace walked along quietly, head lowered, feet plodding wearily. She shook her head when Patsy asked if she’d like more of the Patsy Bossy-Bum and Fairy-Grace story. She didn’t want Orlando either. Or to sing songs, or play ‘I spy’.

It felt like a long time before Grace finally broke the silence, and when she did she whispered the words so softly that it was as if she might not actually want Patsy to hear them at all.

‘Am I bad?’

Patsy turned to her sister, unsure she _had_ heard properly.

‘Bad?’

Grace nodded, avoiding Patsy’s eye. ‘Am I a bad, wicked girl like they said, and that’s why they hit me?’

‘Oh Grace of _course_ you’re not bad! You’re a good, good girl, that’s why Mama always liked you best, remember? You were her special baby. You wouldn’t be Mama’s favourite if you were bad, would you?’

It was _true_ , but it hurt a bit to say it. She never usually admitted so plainly that Grace was the favourite, even to herself.

‘But I- I wet on the carpet. Mama always says only very bad, dirty girls do that, so maybe she wouldn’t like me anymore now’.

I t was hard to tell in the d ark, but Patsy thought her sister’s cheeks were flaring painfully red at the memory. At the time she had been more worried about the Gethins noticing what had happened than how Grace might feel about it, but of course she’d be horribly embarrassed. She hadn’t had an accident like that for a ges , not since she was a little toddler. And Mama  _had_ used to tell her only bad, dirty girls weed on the floor,  but Patsy didn’t think she’d really  _meant_ it. At least not when you were very very little and it was an accident. She had just wanted Grace to try very hard to learn quickly and not do it anymore.

Patsy gave her sister’s hand a squeeze.

‘I bet if someone cut _Mama’s_ hair all off and spanked her bottom and tried to hit her with a belt, she’d have an accident too. _I_ nearly did, it was so, so scary. You weren’t the one that was bad Gracie, Mr Gethin was. And Mrs Gethin was too, because she cut your hair off and didn’t stop him from hitting us’.

‘They won’t hit at Fliss’ house too will they?’

‘No, of course not. If they tried we’d hit them back, and then all three run away again, Phyllis too, and then we’d build our own house in the woods. It wouldn’t be so scary being runaways if Phyllis was there, because she’s nearly a proper grown up and would know what to do’.

They went on quietly again for a minute, and then Grace said ‘You got my name wrong. I’m _Blanche_ now’.

‘Sorry Blanche, what a silly forgetful Alice I am’.

It felt right now, to be these new people. _Blanche_ had never made a puddle on the rug, or been spanked and had her hair forcibly cut off. _Alice_ had never been threatened with a belt or knocked to the ground, or been made to eat grey slimy porridge until she was sick. Neither of them had ever lived with the Gethins, so they’d never had to sleep in the dark, damp little room with the single bed and nothing else, or been given only half a slice of bread and dripping all day, or been slapped and scolded and made to work until their hands were sore. They were free of all of it. They were adventurers, and sisters to Phyllis, washed clean of everything that Patsy and Grace had been through.

She took a deep, clear breath, and stepped smartly forward, doing her best to leave Patsy behind altogether.

‘I’m Alice the Brave, and you’re Blanche the Bold, and we’re going to be alright now, you’ll see...’

She said it once in her normal voice, and then again, trying to make herself sound as much like Phyllis as she could. It sounded perfect to her, but Grace was less impressed.

‘Why are you talking all funny?’

‘I’m _not_ talking funny, I’m talking like Phyllis. That’s how Alice The Brave talks too, so I’m practising. You don’t think _Phyllis_ sounds funny do you?’

Grace shrugged.

‘It sounds sort of okay when she does it, but _you_ sound silly. Like you’re being someone different’.

‘That’s the point _,_ I _am_ someone different. Why don’t you try doing it with me? Come on, like this – Alice the Brave! Blanche the Bold! Alice the Brave! Blanche the- Oh, look!’

Grace had just started joining in when Patsy broke off, catching sight of the road sign up ahead of them. It was as if it had been put there at that moment on purpose, to tell them they were on the right path, and she would have cheered if she wasn’t so tired. The sign itself had been painted over with thick black paint like all the ones at the train stations so they couldn’t read what it said, but it being there meant they were going _somewhere_ – maybe even that they had nearly arrived.

They kept on that road, making a little marching song of their new names to try and keep their spirits up - ‘Alice the Brave, Blanche the Bold, _here_ we go, _here_ we go, Alice the Brave, Blanche the Bold, _here_ we go, _here_ we go’ - in time to their tramping footsteps.

After a while Grace- no, _Blanche_ , pointed up at something barely discernable in the almost total darkness.

‘A house!’

A lice squinted at the slightly darker shape.  _Was_ it a house? It was so hard to tell with no light coming from any windows, and no street lights either, but it might be.  She thought about going to knock on the door and ask them for help (as Alice and Blanche of course), but then a sudden terror gripped her. What if they’d somehow walked in a big, big circle and ended up back at the Gethins’? She  _thought_ the house looked like a different shape, and was a bit further back from the road, but if she was wrong and the door was opened by Mr Gethin, it would all have been for nothing, and worse than nothing. Alice the Brave and Blanche the Bold would disappear instantly back into Patsy the Scared and Grace the Hurt, and they would never escape a second time.

She grabbed Blanche’s hand and pulled her into a run again, forcing their weary feet to move past the dark shape as fast as they could. They began to pass more houses as they went, all dark and sealed up like the first one, looming ominously above them. It was so hard to remember that there were ordinary families inside them, and light and laughter and safety. In her head there was a Gethin lurking behind each covered window, ready to attack if they tapped on their doors.

She didn’t dare approach any of them, not now, when they all looked so blank and strange.

‘We’d better find a place to sleep tonight, then we can work out who will be safe to talk to in the morning’.

B ut n ow  that they were on proper streets with houses and people nearby, there weren’t any convenient hedges to lie under, or any fields to crawl into. They needed to find an empty building, or a park with a fence low enough to climb, but t here didn’t seem to  _be_ any, not like in London.

Alice pushed away her tiredness and led them on, tottering on feet that had passed through cold and pain into numbness. They skirted around the main streets, sticking to the quieter side ways where there would be less chance of meeting anyone, but they still couldn’t find anywhere really safe enough to sleep. Every little corner Alice saw and thought they could curl up in, she imagined Mr Gethin walking past and seeing them, grabbing them, taking off his belt…

Each time she would shudder and pull them on faster, determined to find somewhere properly safe. Then Blanche staggered and very nearly fell, and the old Patsy broke through her new Alice shell, just for a moment. She almost called out to Grace in her own voice, but bit her tongue on the name and pulled her sister back to her feet, reminding herself that she was Alice the Brave, and she wasn’t a bit afraid.

They couldn’t go any further though.

Blanche was very nearly asleep on her feet now, and the only thing keeping Alice awake was the sudden bursts of fear every time she imagined she heard the crack of a belt, or saw a man sized shadow. She stopped where they were and looked around, turning in a careful circle to try and force her weary brain to take in every detail. Little cottages, their front gardens mostly neat lawns or flower beds, nothing that would hide them… but what about a _back_ garden? No one on the street would be able to see them if they were behind the house, and if everyone had blackout curtains up, the people _inside_ wouldn’t see them either. There was bound to be a bush or a tree or something they could curl up under, and if they woke up early and left before the people in the house got up, no one would ever know.

They walked along the row of cottages until they found out with a back garden that was accessible from the front. Alice hesitated, looking quickly in every direction for danger, and then very quietly unlatched the front gate.

They kept to the edge of the garden, tiptoeing quickly towards the little alley running alongside the house, then on into the back garden.

This had a further flat expanse of lawn, with a few flower beds holding ankle high plants. Nowhere to hide at all.

She had just about convinced herself that it wouldn’t matter if they just slept on the grass – not with the black out fabric over the windows and the dark night to cover them; when she caught sight of a deeper darkness in the next garden over. She blinked at it through the blackness, trying to make it out. It was a strange shape, like a little hillock at the end of the garden. If they got behind it and lay down low, no one would be able to see them from the house even if they stood right in the doorway and looked out with a torch. _Perfect._

There was a hedge separating the two gardens, but they were good at hedges now. Alice led the way on hands and knees, pushing the case ahead of her. It was a tighter squeeze than the last one had been, and by the time they made it to the other side they were both scratched and earth stained, bits of leaf clinging to their hair and clothes. Alice hoped they hadn’t left a noticeable hole in the hedge, but it was too dark to tell if they’d done any real damage. Maybe no one would notice anyway.

As they got closer, she discovered that the hillock wasn’t just a mound  of earth at all. It had an opening at one end, like a little cave. The opening was absolutely black – much,  much darker even than the night around them, and n ormally the idea of going inside it would have been frightening. But she was Alice now, and Alice had nothing to fear from dark hollows – they were her gateways to a world of adventure. This odd little garden cave would be the perfect hiding place to spend the night, completely invisible  even from the made up Gethins in her head .

She crawled into the opening and dropped a little way down to the floor, then reached back for Blanche. They might not be falling for hours to arrive in Wonderland, but it really _was_ a bit like a rabbit hole. No. _Not_ a rabbit. It was a tiger’s den, and they would curl up in it like two big jungle cats, brave and unafraid, and in the morning would emerge into a safe, Gethin-free world.

Alice lay down on the cool, damp floor, and pulled Blanche down with her, cuddling her in close to try and keep them both warm. The chilly night air was even worse now that they weren’t moving – much colder than sleeping on the hall floor had been. She could feel Blanche shivering against her in her sleep, and thought muzzily that she ought to find their case and get out their other clothes to drape over them as a blanket. She was so tired that her head hurt and her eyes stung, even when they were closed, and her limbs felt like they’d turned to blocks of stone. _A_ _chey_ stone.

She could see herself reaching for the case and pulling out clothes to tuck over her sister, but it all stayed inside her head. No matter how firmly she told her muscles to move, to sit her up, to find the case, she stayed curled around Grace, still as a statue.

No, s he wasn’t Grace anymore . What was her new name? Patsy was too tired to think of it. Too tired to be Alice. Too tired…

She slept.

Inside her dreams, everything was warm and safe.


End file.
